The Old Cottonwood Tree

A storm came through last night, and we had quite a lot of rain...a good old-fashioned midwestern rain; it went on for nearly an hour and then moved east to pester our neighbors in Wisconsin.

Islay the scottish terrier and I met the dawn well before six and started around the north end of the lake on our morning constitutional, she trotting companionably besides me in my semi-recumbent "geezer" trike, and I pedalling at the speed she requires.

Generally, we go half a mile on the bikeway/walkway next to the road to the first intersection before turning around to head back home. On the way back today, I was startled to discover that the giant cottonwood located a hundred yards from my house had snapped close to the base, and most of it was now resting in the water, about where the youngish and oldish fisherpersons often convene to take it the mighty walleye and bass which lurk in our small lake.

"Damn," I said to Islay, while I wondered why I had taken no note of this significant event on the first leg of our jaunt. I explained to myself that it was early, I was concentrating on Islay, and that my neural processing had not moved from the idling gear it had been in through the night.

That tree was the tallest one near the shore on the north end of the lake. It was mighty when I moved into my house thirty years ago, and it marked a good fishing spot where in midday, there was some shade; it also had become a home for the occasional bald eagle which stopped by to fish in his or her own way; it was, in every respect, a tree one just enjoyed looking at (or at which one enjoyed looking, if you prefer your usage of the classic sort).

I am not going to dig deeply into metaphorical jabs about the passing of mighty trees and how that might apply to those of us whose bark is beginning to peel back and whose center of gravity has shifted a bit. But I shall observe that when something has become part of your visual history every day for three decades, its sudden departure vibrates well past the eyes.

That landscape will never be the same now, and each of us who has driven, walked, jogged, cycled, or boated past that tree will miss it - our deciduous friend has departed, and a small part of us will mourn this change, as we mourn other changes in the daily rhythms of our lives.

We know about such changes, but that doesn't mean we have to like them.

And we don't.