Fencerows: To Plant a Pine
By John Luthens
Acts of creation are ordinarily reserved for gods and poets, but humbler folk may circumvent this restriction if they know how. To plant a pine, for example, one need be neither god nor poet; one need only own a shovel. By virtue of this curious loophole in the rules, any clodhopper may say: Let there be a tree – and there will be one.
Aldo Leopold – “A Sand County Almanac”
The way led through the newly-budded hills above Kewaskum, Wisconsin. It was a bright spring morning and the promise of life was in the air. The destination was automatic.
The Grizzly stood waiting, watching the breeze toss the lower branches of his willow tree along the drive. A beautiful tail fan from a successful turkey hunt rested on a drying table. His boat cover was still in place. The Grizzly just stood watching his willow.
“The orioles are here and the hummingbirds too. All the songbirds are migrating back.” He said. “The trees are full of them. It’s crazy how many pounds of jam I went through last year in the feeders.”
“It seems the birds like sitting in your willow,” I said.
Yeah, but I’m cutting it down. It makes a terrible mess and I’m getting tired of cleaning up after it. I’m busy, I don’t have time for all that yard work.”
The Grizzly watched the trees. “Look, there’s a scarlet tanager. See how red the breast is – it’s beautiful. Did I tell you I watched a raccoon go up into its nest on that tree this morning?”
“Your right,” I said, “you’re way too busy for yard work. How are you going to take that big willow down without crushing the garage?”
“Notch it and pull it with a cable, no problem.”
The Grizzly is a big guy. One heck of a turkey hunter and a great fisherman- once the cover comes off the boat, that is. He might be able to knock the tree down with a single swat of his paw, I thought. I wonder if he’s not dipping into the bird jam for his morning toast, I thought. I held my tongue. The Grizzly is as gentle as they come, but there was no reason to provoke unnecessarily.
“Once that big willow is gone, I’m planting red pines - got them from the state nursery. I have a few extra if you’re interested.”
A sand hill crane echoed its primordial call from the corn stubble. A hawk soared and the song birds scattered for cover. A chipmunk darted into the garage and the Grizzly chased it out with a roar. When the hawk’s shadow passed, the birds returned to their perches in the spring breeze.
We sat and watched. It was that in-between time, no hunting, no fishing. It was a morning to sit and watch the outdoors go by. It was a morning that cared not what tomorrow may bring.
I’ve heard tell that red pines can live 350 years. I’ve heard they eventually grow to be mighty tall. Likely, by the time the pines grow tall enough to offer shelter, the Grizzly and I will no longer be around to see the fruits of our labor. But spring mornings will keep coming, and hopefully, so will the birds.
“I’ll take the pines,” I said.