JULY 12, 2020 – When I was little, Dad bought a cheap chunk of farmland north of town and planted 10,000 pine seedlings. Later he bought a larger, cheaper piece of prairie in a neighboring county and planted 20,000 more. His idea was to raise Christmas trees to supplement his income as Clerk of Court of Anoka County—in case someone ran against him and won.
As it turned out, Dad never lost an election. And he never sold a single Christmas tree.
The problem was, Dad didn’t have the heart to harvest a single tree. He spent many hours tending them. Gophers were a problem, and until the trees could defend themselves, Dad waged war with the animal that was the mascot of his alma mater.
Ironically, in the case of the larger, more distant tree farm, what government had given by way of a subsidy to encourage tree farming, government later reclaimed by eminent domain. As part of a large-scale effort to return acreage to pristine prairie, the Department of Interior acquired the farm with 20,000 healthy white pine saplings, and . . . plowed them under.
The other tree farm he sold to a developer. To Dad’s immense satisfaction, the developer carved the tree farm into five-acre lots, and many of the trees Dad planted survive, towering over houses in the development.
But it was up at the lake—Björnholm—in northwest Wisconsin, where Dad was in tree heaven. Except for the immediate yard around the old cabin, surrounding acreage is heavily wooded. Despite being on the prime side of a prime lake, Dad was never much of a water person. The commanding view was more than enough water for him. His interest was in the other direction—the woods.
From Dad I learned a lot about trees, and over time my appreciation for these magnificent “beings” deepened. In his later years, I got Dad aboard the run-about and cruised along our shoreline so he could survey the mighty pine that had matured in his day and mine. We’d point out to each other specific trees and share our mutual awe of them and their progress.
Several years after Dad died, against my every instinct I negotiated logging rights to our “back 40,” where deciduous trees reigned. The goal was to fund a kitty to defray the holding costs of Björnholm. Over time Dad had rejected multiple offers. He didn’t want any logger messing with our woods.
Dad would’ve been appalled by the wreckage.
Partly in penance but largely out of my love for trees, I’ve since worked hard (with Dad’s hand-tooled planter) at re-seeding the harvested area with white pine, the region’s indigenous species. In a few short years, I’m seeing the fruit of hard work. In addition to the thriving hundreds I hand-planted, thousands of volunteers have taken root. I’m now clearing brush to give them all an optimal chance. What a thrill to see them striving skyward!
I often think about Dad as I work my redemption. I know he’d be thrilled too.
(Remember to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.)
© 2020 by Eric Nilsson
