“DEDICATION TO AN
ASH TREE”

by Elena Armstrong

     I survey the debris that had at one time been this ash tree. When we looked at the rings, we figured it was here about forty-seven years. We've only had the property for only five years, and the house is only about twenty five years old. Which means when they cleared the land to make room for the house, for some reason they left this tree. I don't know exactly for what reason; my guess it wasn't aesthetics, for it stood out like a metalhead at a chamber orchestra concert.

     But then again, twenty-five years ago, when they first built this house, the whole area must have been different from what it is now. The area might have had a lot of these trees, not the hiker's path we have now, making the tree one among many. It wouldn't have been as tall or seemed as top heavy as it does now. Maybe it would have exuded a charm or grace that was lost on us now. All we saw was jagged veins stabbing an otherwise picturesque view; especially prominent in the early spring when the tree didn't have any leaves, which was what it was at this time and moment when the tree breathed its last. It also hogged the root space of the surrounding apple trees. And if we had to choose between a single ash tree and multiple apple trees, the apple trees would win. At least it was a potential food source. Not so the ash tree.

     The biggest reason, however, why we chose to fell this tree was the history we have had with ash trees as a whole. This particular ash tree at this particular moment was fairly healthy, but that wasn't all that assuring, given its relatives' track history. A couple of years ago we had an ice storm, and one of the white ashes in our backyard decided this would be a great time to split down the middle, and take out a couple of plum trees while it was at it. We have white pine, white birch, apple, elm, walnut, maple, cherry and oak, and none of these trees acted like this. But the ash trees sagged under the weight of the ice by its trunk. Or in the case of another ash tree, this one right by our house, it didn't actually split. At least not yet. But what did happen with it was that it began rotting out by where the top of the trunk, as though the ice melt had caused an infection to it that rotted it through. I liked the tree; it was a nice shade tree that sheltered our patio in the hot summer afternoons, and we had hung a tire swing on one of its branches. But as much as I liked it, I knew it had to go.

     By the time we came around to discussing this ash tree, it was a very pragmatic decision. I love trees; I can relate to the Native American idea of seeing all of them as friends. So it wasn't without heart that I discussed the execution of this one specimen that greeted us every day when we walked in the backyard. But realistically, it seemed that it was the least of all evils to fell it, even though it seemed like a major rationalization to me at best. Its life wouldn't be wasted; it would be used for our fuel. Seeing that our winter heat mostly consists of wood, there had to be some tree that had to be sacrificed; why not this one? But I suppose that is the difference between eating chicken at a restaurant or wringing the neck of a rooster you've fed for the last three years so it can feed you: I had more of a relationship with this tree. By using this tree that I had seen over the years versus an anonymous tree cut and delivered to me, I was more aware of what the process of my life was, just like a meat farmer is more aware of the meat that feeds his family than a person who buys a steak at the supermarket. This awareness made me somewhat uncomfortable; aware of what a consumer I was. What had taken forty-seven years to grow was gone in two hours' time.

     Dismantling the branches developed into a sort of intimacy: branches that I normally glance at, see not as individuals, but as shoots from the top, I have come to know individually. Branches I would normally never get to touch because they were too high now rest in my hands as I cart away the debris. Larger branches are cut and split for firewood, their insides telling more of a story as they tell me how long they existed on the tree by their rings; noticing them, you see how the tree developed, where it felt the need to shoot out more branches so it could reach the sky and rejoice in its life. The smallest branches are gathered as kindling for campfires, so we can enjoy the summer nights for longer periods than the sun allows. What had seemed like just a nuisance to walk around was being prepared to give great joy. I find it is important to remember is as I walk away with the wood, to give the tree the memory of life that it deserves. It forces me to stay in the moment, to feel how this act of wood gathering is just another step in the process of nature, one that I am part of.

     The morning before the tree was cut down, I went and said good-bye to it. I don't know if God exists in the tree, or if the tree has a specific spirit in it that communicates. I don't know if that matters, really. What I was doing was acknowledging the life that it had, and thanking it, and God for providing it. Maybe it had its own destination in its forty-seven years, but its final act would be a sacrificial act, to enhance my life. It seemed appropriate to at least be grateful. Touching the bark I did feel gratitude. Life in its fullness coming around in a total circle, a cycle that would repeat itself over and over. One that is easily ignored but continues nonetheless. I saw my part in it, and I felt complete.