Do you remember the magnificent maple tree that came crashing down to earth late this summer? At the time I alluded to a secret of the ancient maple. Today I’m ready to share yet another confidence concealed by this lofty giant for well over a century.
This ancient maple — wise for the century plus it’s stood sentry on Merchants Row observing — … [an] immense… tree that stood on our front lawn just north of the driveway entrance, was toppled by a violent thunderstorm.
(Source: Ancient Maple)
The monumental maple came crashing down, just barely sparing a passerby, Bradley French, whose split second reaction time likely saved his life.
That’s the good news. Though, his truck was damaged.
The fence was also spared. More good news.
But the timeless tree, towering high above the street? A memory. And the sense of loss remains palpable.
Still absorbing the loss of this monumental maple. The second and last on our street frontage to slip out of our story and into history.
(Source: Heart Rot Haiku)
Once upon a time, Merchants Row was lined with these stately maple trees. Historic photographs made early in the 20th century reveal these trees already immense and full canopied. Grand by any estimation. But slowly — one-by-one over many decades — these sylvan stalwarts have succumbed to storms and the ruthless ravages of time.
Heart Rot Haiku
I suppose I’ve felt a certain reverence for these timeless towers presiding over our home and waterfront. Although storm damage from mighty winds has become increasingly common, the ache of loss does not lessen.
After this tree met it’s dramatic end, I shared a haiku.
An ancient maple —
gnarled noble, hidden heart rot —
hallowed, hollowed husk.
Sometimes fewer words say better what many words obscure.
Rot & Rings, Rotten Rings
Speaking of obscuring, I already mentioned that this ancient maple had been concealing a hollow core.
What about the secret of the ancient maple? It was mostly hollow within… Although there were no visible indications that the interior of the tree had rotted and hollowed out, the ancient Acer saccharum can no longer conceal her secret.
(Source: Ancient Maple)
As you see in the first two photos that I’ve included in this post, much of the tree trunk was absent, erased by years and years of rot.
And this void brings me to the second maple secret: the age of the fallen tree.
Pam has counted growth rings in a representative section of the tree trunk spanning 5-1/2” and the overall stump averages 48” across. A little back-of-the-napkin “ciphering” suggests that the maple was approximately 161 years old!
What do you think?