The Big Pine Tree

There used to be a magnificent, stately pine tree in front of our house. It was tall and straight with symmetrical branches gracefully spreading across the stone wall. The house faces south and the tree was a feature of the view from our dining table, across the pasture to the hills beyond.

Last winter we had it taken down. It took several years for us to come to that decision, and still I sometimes miss the big pine. In summer it provided shade; in winter it was a welcome splotch of green in a gray-brown or white world. But in winter it blocked the warmth of the low winter sun. When the sun passed behind the tree, in mid-day, the chill in my house was palpable, and by the time the sun had moved west beyond the influence of the tree, it was too late in the afternoon for the weak December sun to warm us.

When spring arrived, flowers under the tree struggled pathetically—an azalea, daffodils, a mountain ash, a couple of rhododendrons. None could thrive, so overwhelming was the tree’s influence on all in its shadow.

We built our house 40 years ago. The pines were waist high, entangled in a jungle of juniper in the overgrown orchard. We pulled up the juniper and cut some of the pines, but those that were left grew—and grew. At last their presence dominated the area.

Without regret we had our logger cut several scraggly specimens behind the house, although they had provided some brake on the cold northwesterly winds. Once, the logger miscalculated the fall of a monster and it took with it two smaller trees that held a swing our small grandsons loved. It was our delight to watch from the kitchen window while their dad pushed them.

But back to the big, perfect tree. What of the decision to remove so great a presence? Eventually it would have matured and, like all living things, returned to mother earth in its own good time. Meanwhile, it served to dim the light and warmth of the sun and discourage new growth where it cast its shadow. We chose to intervene in nature’s course.

All this from the demise of a single tree, which blocked the sun and dominated its surroundings. So it seems that anything so overpowering must, sooner or later, give way to allow others to grow and flourish. This spring I watch as newly released shrubs lift their heads. Gradually, over several seasons, they too will thrive. Will one of them become too overwhelming and have to go in order to allow others to flourish? We shall see.

There is a lesson in this: living things do grow. Eventually it is necessary to let go of something admired, even revered, in order that new life may emerge. Clinging to a dominating presence too long stifles that which struggles to come after. Sometimes we can take a hand in the process. But eventually the natural world will do it for us, regardless of our preference.

By Carolyn Baldwin, UNH Cooperative Extension Wildlife Coverts Cooperator