STORMY DAYS
Most of us in the northeast are unlikely to forget the short-lived but hard-hitting snowstorm of October 29, 2011. I emerged from a funeral at two pm on that day and heard the ominous sound of continuous cracks, pops and crashes as trunks split, limbs came down and whole trees toppled. The storm broke even the biggest of trees as well as the hearts of those that love them.
The 2011 storm came on the heels of the twenty-fourth anniversary of England’s Great Storm of October 1987. That weather disaster was caused by high winds rather than wet snow, but the deadly outcome was the same–an estimated 15 million trees were lost in southern England. Trees that had borne witness to hundreds of years of history were felled by the score–as with our northeastern trees, their heavy branches were in full leaf and even the stoutest roots lost their grip on the over-saturated earth. The Great Storm changed the landscape of southern England and its effects can still be seen and felt. It will be the same for us.
Now, in the aftermath of the 2011 storm, the piles of downed branches line the streets. I hope that most of them will be put through chipper shredders, turned to mulch and returned to the earth. But as sad as the branches are, I think the overhead scene is even worse. Severed or nearly severed limbs dangle, caught on other limbs–for now. If not removed, they will break free in the next windstorm or over the winter, crashing down unexpectedly. In earlier times, those threatening, vulnerable branches were sometimes called “widow makers” for obvious reasons.
The shard-like remains of limbs and branches are still up there too, pointing towards the once- angry sky and testifying in their own way to the storm’s violence. All of them cry out for tree surgeons’ attention–sooner rather than later.
My town has lots of old, tall sycamore trees and they were among the most harmed by the storm. I find this especially distressing because sycamores seem to me the most “human” of trees. Their bark exfoliates or peels, giving the trunks an interesting mottled appearance that reminds me of human skin–especially aging human skin. The stout trunks sometimes have large lumps and bumps, and the majority of us who are not fashion models are similarly lumpy and bumpy. Under stress a sycamore will suffer the arboreal equivalent of a nervous breakdown, shedding its leaves early in the growing season. But it is also resilient, producing another crop of foliage later in the summer. Like the best of us, sycamores find a way to flourish in less-than-favorable urban and suburban conditions, tolerating pollution and the constant vibration of street traffic. In addition to being pillars of our arboreal heritage, sycamores–in all their strength and frailty–are a collective metaphor for our society. When sycamores are in serious jeopardy, we are all in trouble.
So, other than cleaning up the mess and waiting for a return call from the tree surgeon, what can we do in the aftermath of the storm?
If you have lost trees, plan now to replace them. Small flowering specimens are lovely, especially for constrained spaces, but if you have the room, consider a large shade tree. Most of us won’t leave a legacy in art or music or science, but we can leave a silent, enduring legacy by planting a big, long-lived tree. Think of disease-resistant elms and chestnuts, beeches, oaks, zelkovas and even the tulip trees so beloved of Thomas Jefferson and George Washington. Old trees, like well-aged people connect us to the past; young trees, like our children, connect us to the future. Communities of trees need age diversity just like communities of people. Succeeding generations in our communities will judge us on efforts like tree planting.
My great fear, as a gardener and tree lover, is that some people, especially those who have suffered expensive storm damage, will not want to replace lost trees. Sizing up the cost of house or car repairs and the inconveniences of power outages, it is easy to forget the cooling benefits of a shade tree, which multi-tasks by simultaneously cleansing polluted air and filtering run-off water. As a society we pay a lot for machines that do those tasks much less efficiently, cost-effectively and beautifully.
If you have damaged but salvageable trees, keep them watered and properly pruned going forward. They will repay you in years of shade and resistance to damage in lesser storms.
Those of us who plant new trees–and even those of us who don’t–will be able to see a silver lining in the 2011 storm cloud as soon as next spring. Sun loving plants will sprout in formerly shady areas and will continue to flourish in the decade or so before replacement trees begin to shade them out once again. It isn’t too late to make a virtue of a necessity by planting tulip or daffodil bulbs in areas where damage has been cleared away.
If you look at the bigger picture painted by the 2011 storm, you may also agree with the words of Andy Jesson, head gardener at Sheffield Park, and English National Trust property that suffered great losses in 1987. In an interview with the Telegraph newspaper, Mr. Jesson said, “I learnt a lot from the Great Storm; it taught me that as much as I like to think I influence nature by growing trees and shrubs, I’m really at her mercy.”