“That’s not a tree. That’s a weed.” Minnesota native Marvin Ekgren circa 1963
The tree would be
some 60 years old. I don’t think it was
planted. It was a result of one of the
characteristics that earns the Chinese elm the designation as a weed—the blizzard
of button-sized disks that sweep the landscape with every March or April breeze.
I have seen the
seeds growing in rain gutters with too much trash in them. Mr. Ekgren complained about them taking over
the fence rows. I can see that happening
in a wetter climate.
A bramble of
raspberry bushes used to support the east side of the picket fence near where
Rommel’s house now stands. All of the
tree’s brothers and sisters would have been uprooted as a matter of course in
the spring when the raspberry thicket got its spring tending.
Somehow, this
one survived. In time, it shaded and sheltered
that corner of the yard. In its time, it
provided relief from the hot summer sun,
and even served as some protection for unhoused vehicles during a hail storm or
two. It was a nice place to wash a car
or pickup, particularly when we were still shaving ice and needed a clean
pickup to haul the equipment.
In 2021, its
shade capability diminished. By the end
of summer, its bare branches were not the result of the regular Fall
leaf-drop. It was dead.
A sister elm
fifteen or twenty feet to the east had been planned and planted. It died in 2020 and was removed a year
ago. It wasn’t as big as this one. After taking that one out, I wasn’t up for
another one. It wouldn’t hurt to let
this one age and dry for a year.
All of the
summer chores done, the wheat planted, the machinery housed, it was time to
take on the tree. I had studied the
proper procedure quite a few times before actually mounting my attack.
I would need a
rope to safely direct the tree’s descent in case my lumberjack skills weren’t
quite up to felling the thing in the right direction. In danger were Rommel’s house, the hedge less
that two feet away, and even the northeast corner of the house.
Step one was to
take out a west-leaning branch that could lead the tree to fall the wrong way.
That done, it was time to harness the Dodge Dakota to the tree as high as I dare go with a step ladder in the pickup bed.
But wait! I hadn’t even nicked the back side of the
tree above the fish mouth. No time to
contemplate what went wrong. The shadow
of branches crossed me and I ran. I ran
like hell.
I wasn’t sure
which way that thing would fall, but in the instant, I chose to run south. Good choice.
I stood there, thirty feet south of the tree, the idling chainsaw in my
hand and looked at the north half of the tree that fell north and managed to
miss the burn barrel.
Oh well. When you get bucked off, get back in the
saddle before you have much time to think about it. When my heartbeat returned to something like
normal, I went to work on the back side of the fish mouth.
This time, before
I heard the ominous cracking sound, I installed the Goodwife in the pickup and
told her to put it in gear, but don’t step on the accelerator. Let the idle pull out the remaining slack in
the rope.
As the rope
tightened, I got ready to go back and make a final cut, but before I could move
away from the Dakota’s open right window, the ominous cracking sound came
again.
I stood in my
tracks and watched as the pickup inched forward and the tree began to tilt in
our direction. In an instant, gravity
exceeded the pickup speed. The rope
slackened, but the tree fell almost where I
had planned for it to fall.
The excitement was
over. Now, the grunt work. Cut the tree down. Cut the tree up.
I had filled the
chainsaw gas tank and oil reservoir twice.
By the time it ran out of gas the second time, I was also out of gas.
I coiled up and stowed the heavy old
rope. The chainsaw in its case in the
shop, time to enjoy some fruit of the day’s labor.
A fire in the
small kitchen wood-burner cheered us as we prepared our supper and watched the
long shadows turn to night.
