Sometimes, we’re so used to seeing something, we don’t notice it at all. You know what I mean. It’s there, but we don’t truly see it. Whenever I drove by a nearby forest, I knew I was looking at trees and undergrowth. Sometimes I did think about how different it would look if the land were developed and houses grew there instead of nature’s plantings, but I never really looked at the land.

I didn’t notice the ratio of hardwoods to evergreens. What kind of oaks grew there? What species of plants made up the undergrowth? Had invasive burning bush or oriental bittersweet moved in? Were there native viburnums growing? Did the red color of winterberry hint at wet ground? Was the land bisected by old stone walls? What lay beyond the trees?

I didn’t think to ask. No, I drove by and saw only green and brown. I was glad to see the wilderness left uncut, undeveloped, undisturbed, but I never really looked at it.

And now, it’s gone. In just a few minutes, minutes, it was all destroyed as surely as if man had come in and clear-cut.

In July of this year, a tornado swept through the land, twisting the trees as I would twist a handkerchief. The aftermath was stunning. Of course, I’d seen images on television of the damage a twister could do­houses without roofs, cars lifted up and carried away, but it’s hard to truly grasp the power of a tornado, even when the images are on a large-screen television. But this, this used-to-be forest, this was real, and it was frightening.

The tornado began south of us, tearing its way through woods, damaging houses. It raged across one lake, more woods, across our lake, just catching a corner of a summer camp, where moments before children had been boarding busses to take them on an outing. It crossed a busy road, where a mother and her young child narrowly escaped the crashing trees, barreled across more woods and another road, then veered around as it raced up a hill and on into the next town.

The devastation it left in its wake stunned us. For weeks afterwards, people’s first words to acquaintances were, “Have you seen it? Have you been to look at the damage?” Friends told one another of their close calls­the house with downed trees all around it but undamaged itself, the driver who got through just before the trees blocked the road.

Then came the chainsaws with their incessant whining and the massive chippers with their deep drone. The heavy trucks rumbled by our home several times a day, coming in empty and going out filled with wood chips for some distant wood-fired power plant. The trailers filled with oak and maple and pine seemed to be everywhere. The work has gone on for weeks and weeks. Months later, it’s still continuing.

The finished areas are now clear-cut. Where once deer and bear and moose browsed for food, where birds built their nests and searched for seed, where smaller mammals like squirrels and skunks found shelter­now, there is almost nothing. A few small shrubs, a sapling or two standing starkly against the sky­nothing else remains.

How could it all go in such a short time? Nature spent years and years building up that forest, then destroyed it in a few short minutes. A clear sky one minute, then storm clouds the next­we’re used to that sort of change.

But this? This total devastation seems alien to us. Unreal. A mistake.

Now, when I drive down that road, I wish I could recall what the forest looked like. The starkness of the landscape disturbs me and not even the new vista can erase the sorrow I feel.

Now, instead of green and brown, far down the hill of stumps and low brush, is the lake itself. It’s peaceful and lovely in the sunlight, but I don’t feel serene looking at it, as I usually do when viewing the water. I see destruction and I feel disquiet. I’m uneasy and insecure.

And I wonder, what other surprises does Nature have in her magic bag? Which one will she produce next?

One either side of the devastation lie intact woods. Now I notice the trees, picking out the oaks which hold their leaves so long into the fall and winter. I see an old stone wall, its stones tumbled thanks to the growth of trees and the pull of frost. I see the winterberry and the fir and the hemlock. I look at the landscape. Nature has taught me a lesson and I intend to remember it.

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener