JUNE 21, 2024 – Today was arbor day in my little world away from home. Our son and daughter-in-law’s yard was already home to many trees, but two months ago they decided that a magnolia would be an attractive addition. My wife and I happened to be visiting on that occasion and accompanied the expedition to a local nursery-landscaping outfit tucked away on nearby country road.
I say “expedition,” because it involved four adults, one baby, two sedans, one utility jeep, and a hardcore trailer—hitched to the utility jeep. The jeep and trailer were driven by Steve, our next door neighbor and close friend back on the cove. Steve is one of those people who’s always willing and able to chip in, lend a hand, host a party, join a party, talk serious politics, laugh at a humorous story, and . . . on request, drive his jeep and trailer from the Lyme side of the lower Connecticut River to the Chester side, where I could hop aboard the jeep and together, with jeep and trailer, Steve and I could join the caravan to the nursery to pick up . . . the magnolia tree.
With the unloading of the potted tree—under the shade of one of the most magnificent oaks in a town full of beautiful oaks (and maples, fir, and pine), I figured my association with the magnolia had concluded. A day or two later, Beth and I flew back to Minnesota, and thereafter, I gave no thought to the tree.
Upon our return visit to Chester a week ago, we noticed the magnolia in almost the same spot as it had been unloaded two months before. Beth was surprised that it hadn’t yet been planted, though in the moment she was forgetting that our son and daughter-in-law are now primarily focused on their new baby on top of their demanding livelihoods. They haven’t had time to hire someone to plant the magnolia, let alone plant it themselves. In any event, Beth remarked that the tree should be put in the ground soon. She was right, of course, though the six-foot-high arbor still looked hearty and hale. “Maybe you could offer to plant it,” she said to me.
I did, in fact, offer to do so . . . if and when our busy schedule would allow. That time and day arrived today, which, naturally, was the hottest day of our entire time out here. Our daughter-in-law showed me exactly where she wanted the magnolia tree planted, then left me to my own devices—and on-site tools and wheelbarrow for me to discover.
I was soon reminded how it feels to work my butt off when the temperature is 91°F in the shade and the designated place for the large hole to be dug is in the broiling sun. In a shed I’d found a high-end shovel, and after stomping on the step of the shovel blade a few times to break through the sod, I turned into a sweat machine. Once I’d peeled back the sod, I met the reason behind Horace Greeley’s famous exhortation, “Go west young man . . .” The advice had nothing to do with Manifest Destiny. It had everything to do with the stony soil of New England—most evident in the ubiquity of stone fences in this part of the world.
As the shovel bounced off the rocks and stones where the magnolia would grow, I recalled the challenges I’d faced in northwest Wisconsin six years ago: sinking the planting bar into similarly unforgiving ground enough to create a wedge-shaped space about nine inches deep, then using a paint stick to tease into the hole the bare roots of a two- or three-year-pine seedling, then attempting to split the earth again on the other side of the first wedge to press the latter closed. On average, each planting took over five minutes—multiplied by 100s.
At that rate it would take one person a billion years to replace all the trees that were felled, burned, girdled by generations of Americans seeking to tame the land by violent means.
Time to shift into positive attitude mode, I told myself. Planting a single magnolia tree today is better than not planting any! This exercise in self-persuasion gave me strength, endurance, and inspiration. I loaded my thoughts onto an imaginary drone and flew high above the wooded hills of this gorgeous part of the world. Soon I could “see” the river not more than two miles away. Higher yet and in my thoughts I could see the Sound six miles downstream, the shoreline running northeast and southwest. Way above the clouds and climbing farther still, I imagined all of New England, then Canada, the Eastern Seaboard, then west across Pennsylvania, Ohio and all the way back to Minnesota, and finally, up to tregården (“the tree garden”) of Björnholm in Wisconsin, to which I’ll return late next week to inspect my precious white pine.
My imaginary drone trip also served as a trip into the distant past, when our country was ripe for the taking by European settlers, religionists, explorers, and adventurers. I then fast forwarded across many generations hellbent on cutting down all the trees to make room for growing grains, feeding cattle, and shaping our country.
How desperately, I thought, we need to plan more trees . . . to save the earth and pass it on to the next generations. Digging the hole today, then cutting the magnolia free from its potted confines, loosening the compacted roots of the tree, maneuvering the root ball into the hole, filling the space between the root ball and the sides of the hole, mulching around the base of the tree, watering the tree, pitching excess dirt into the wheelbarrow and disposing of that dirt—all of this effort on what felt like the hottest day of the summer—was an edifying experience: it symbolized the work required of humanity to save humanity, not to mention all life forms on which we depend.
The magnolia today was but a single tree, a decorative addition to a yard. May this tree thrive over many decades, but more than that, may the magnolia inspire everyone who sees it or reads about it to plant a tree. Together we can save the world; together we must.
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
