Autumn

At last count, we had 86 trees up on the hill. Of that number, we’ve planted all but a dozen, which were well into their maturity by the time we came on the scene. The Chinquapin oak and American elm (Ulmus americanus) I’ve written about (over and over), but we also have a beautifully-gnarled honey locust (Gleditsia triacanthos); a pair of swamp maples (Acer saccarinum) that are, along with property taxes, the bane of D’s existence; and two sets of triplets: three Fraser firs (Abies fraseri) and three Alberta spruces (Picea glauca). There are also a few straggly chokecherries (Prunus virginianus), some decrepit Mountain Ash (Sorbus Americana) and a towering Catalpa that inexplicably sent one of its huge branches crashing to the ground the morning D’s mother died.

The rest of the trees that surround the house are our handiwork. They represent an insane amount of time, effort, and income, so we just don’t think about what we’ve invested over the years. I've enjoyed every hole I’ve dug, and love looking out of the second floor windows at the spreading branches of our arboreal family. With the exception of a tricolor beech (Fagus sylvatica) that got mauled early on by some young bucks rubbing the fuzz of their adolescent antlers, and a Dawn Redwood (Metasequoia glyptostroboides) that has been dying a slow death ever since we planted it the summer after we moved in, we’ve had great luck with our trees.

Rosslyn Farms has a staggering number of species represented in its tree cover. From our house we can see all sorts of flowering ornamental fruit trees, evergreens of every shade, a monumental Ginko biloba, and magnolias of all sorts. Not many communities in the northeast can boast of having elms; here’s hoping that Charlie’s efforts this summer will save the remaining specimens for future generations.

And that’s what trees represent to me: hope for, and belief in, a future where the earth and its inhabitants are able to enjoy the wonders of nature, the way I have been able to enjoy them. Clean air and water (at least relatively); hospitable seasons, by and large; species and varieties of flora and fauna just awaiting closer inspection. With every tree that goes in the ground of our hill, I think about those faceless future generations who might take shelter under their boughs on a hot July afternoon or gather up the colorful leaves that fall from their October branches. I try and picture the esplanade of weeping crabapples (Malus floribunda) that our neighbor told us she used to play under with the daughter of the original owners of our house, before there was a high school, or even a parkway, outside our doors.

I love this time of year, when even the most prosaic of trees gets the chance to shine a bit. On my way to work, I'm treated to a scarlet splash here and there on the hillsides I pass. The Katsura tree outside my office window will, overnight, turn John Deere yellow, making my colleagues stop in their tracks and look at it—really look at it—for the first time all season. That Katsura, and all its relatives, deserves a few seconds of attention. It and its brethren breathe out oxygen, the oxygen the rest of the planet needs to survive. And they absorb some of the stuff in the atmosphere that would otherwise slowly choke our world to death.

So go ahead, hug a tree. Hug the next one you see—it doesn’t really matter what anyone else thinks. That tree adds to the beauty and health of our world. Besides, “tree-hugger” has such a nice ring to it.