“A man does not plant a tree for himself; he plants it for posterity,” wrote English essayist Alexander Smith. And, just maybe, for its musical prowess.
The old man taught a wee country lad a few tree lessons half a century ago on the rural Ohio homestead. Often walking the perimeter of the property, he’d regularly quiz me on the species of trees my brothers and I had helped him plant over the years.
Many of those trees began life in a seedling bed that required meticulous weekly weeding, lest we incur The Wrath of Dad.
Someday we’d enjoy those trees for their shade, he’d say. And we certainly did, thanks to a wide variety of maples, sycamores and poplars.
Someday we’d come to appreciate their beauty, he’d say. And we did, regularly reveling in the grace of a huge weeping willow and the poise of the regal European mountain ash, to name two of many.
Someday, we’d enjoy the fruits of our labors with real fruit. And we did, in the form of pears, peaches, apples and plums.
Someday, we’d enjoy many of those trees for their firewood, he’d also remind. And we most certainly did, years after he passed, logging a half-dozen varieties.
Ah, “for posterity.”
Years later, on another tract of land not terribly far from the homestead, the lessons of Alexander Smith and the old man will be paid forward.
Soon to be delivered just in time for spring planting will be a grand smorgasbord of young trees, some of which will begin life in, yes, a seedling bed.
Some others, however, will be larger, averaging 4 to 5 feet. Among them, a trio of river birch that will serve as a nice accent to greet passers-by and visitors. Too, a quaking aspen will be majestic long before it reaches maturity and 50 feet in height.
There also will be, for sentimental reasons, an American version of that old European mountain ash. Then there will be a few catalpas to remind me of one at the old homestead, not to forget those planted around the neighborhood I’ve called home for nearly 30 years.
And then there will be something new and exciting – a London planetree, a cross between a sycamore and an Asian planetree that will grow to 100 feet.
Oh, some critics might not think much of it – perhaps too prone to disease and its shedding bark too messy – but it will mature into a majestic tree, catching breezes and delivering windsongs long after I’m gone.
“I wonder about the trees,” venerated poet Robert Frost once pondered in verse:
“Why do we wish to bear
“Forever the noise of these
“More than another noise
“So close to a dwelling place?”
Perhaps, dear Robert, because the poet’s “noise” is not “noise” at all but nature’s woodwind symphony. How exciting, then, that many more players are about to join the ensemble.
Colin McNickle is a senior fellow and media specialist at the Allegheny Institute for Public Policy (cmcnickle@alleghenyinstitute.org).
