The Matriarch Cottonwood

I discovered this grand lady not long after I moved to Minnesota. She is about a block from my house across the street. She is about 150 years old and her crown soars some 120 feet into the air. Behind the property where she grows in a conservation center full of younger cottonwood trees. It is a veritable grove of cottonwood trees with leaves that glitter and dance in the Summer. I wonder if these are her progeny. She sheds clouds of cottony seeds in the Spring. The winds come out of the West carrying those seeds into the wet watery conservation center.

I wonder if the owner of this little house intend on keeping this beauty indefinitely or will they lose patience with her cottony mess and have her cut down? I only hope the owner appreciates trees as much as I do.

Cottonwood Skeletons

I found and photographed these on my morning walk through the Windom Conservation Center. The first photograph is a dead skeleton still standing on its foot. There are no twigs on it with buds that promise spring growth. Even in Winter it is easy to tell a dead Cottonwood from a living one.

The bottom picture is a fallen dead Cottonwood that had to be cut so that it would not obstruct the walkway. I counted only 43 growth rings on it. Why was the lives of these two similar sized trees cut so short, yet I have a giant in my backyard about 200 years old?

It all relates to competition and opportunistic disease. This nature trail is full of Cottonwood. The cottonwood loves its feet to be wet. These dead ones sit up high on a built up bank. Also white spruce have been planted around by people that maintain the trail. Perhaps they died because the soil was disturbed.

Cottonwood groves start out dense along a water course, then thin out as other kinds of trees move in, until there are only a few very old venerable specimens left. If the mixed forest is washed away in a flood or chewed down by beavers, then the cottonwood cycle repeats itself. Cottonwoods are pioneer trees that start the riparian woodlands.

What's that staring in the Picture Window?

Not long after I bought my lovely 3000 square foot home, my son and I discovered this creature in the above picture staring through the Bow window on the back of the house. The photo has not been modified in any way. The Silver Maple actually has those owl eyes. She is about 80 years old and predates the house. I cannot call her a House Hugger. She, rather stares through the window. My son an I affectionately call her Gertrude. The river in the background is full of her offspring.
Here in the background behind Gertrude is the enormous Cottonwood of one of my previous post, Bill. My backyard is a grove of trees that predates the house.

Apple

Image is a necklace made from a tiny spoon engraved with an image of a tree. Each of the beads on the necklace suggest an apple. Only a very few apples ever become a tree.

This is a poem I wrote in 2003.

The Tale of Apple
By R. E. Woods-Marks

Beside the barn was a tree.
Up high in the tree was Apple.
She was quite content all shiny and red.
Apple looked out over the farm.
She saw the cows grazing,
And the dogs playing.
With her were her brothers and sisters.
One by one each was picked,
Until it was just Apple up high in the tree.
Apple was still happy,
But she wondered who would pick her?
Along came a green worm,
And he ate a big hole through her.
Now Apple wasn't so shiny,
Apple was now sad.
Who would want an Apple with a hole through her?
Then along came a wind.
It knocked Apple from her branch,
And down, down she fell until she hit the ground.
Ouch! That hurt.
She bounced down the grassy hill
And landed in the pig pen.
Now Apple wasn't so red.
Apple was very sad.
She began to turn brown
And she began to get smelly,
Along came a pig,
And he took a bite out of her.
Another pig also took a bite,
Until all that was left of Apple,
Was a core.
Apple was very, very sad.
She was not pretty anymore,
Rather, she was quite ugly,
Laying there in the mud.
Who would want a brown old core?
Along came a kind Man.
He picked her up.
He held her in his warm hand,
As he carried her to his barn.
He laid Apple on his bench.
"How would you like to be My Apple?"
The Kind Man asked.
"Yes," Apple said sadly.
"Just let me take this core off of you,"
The Kind Man said.
With his fingers he picked,
The ugly brown off of her,
Until all that was left,
Was a little black seed.
Apple did not feel pretty,
Laying in the man's hand.
The Kind Man put in her a cup,
And he covered her with dirt,
Apple still felt ugly as she fell to sleep.
When Apple woke up,
She pushed her way out of the dirt.
She was all green,
With shiny leaves and a little stem.
She didn't feel ugly anymore.
The Kind Man held her in his warm hands.
He planted her,
And she grew.
Now she looked out over the farm,
And watched the cows grazing,
And the dogs playing.
The Kind Man often came,
He watered her, and sat in her shade.
Now Apple was very happy.

My Psalm 1 Tree

"1 Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful.
2 But his delight is in the law of the LORD; and in His law doth he meditate day and and night.
3 And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season; his leaf also shall not wither; and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper. Psalm 1: 1-3


The above photo accompanying the quote is an enourmous Cottonwood in my backyard. This tree is a male pollen bearing Cottonwood. In spring he bombs us with stick resinous catkins, that if you venture out without shoes, you are left with black tarry stains on the soles of your feet. My family affectionately calls the fellow 'Bill' after a person of enourmous girth that my husband knew. The short haired woman in front of the tree is me. I stand 5-4. I am dwarfed by Bill's bulk. My husband and I took out a measuring tape. He measures 22 feet at his base. A lesser cottonwood, half his size, blown over by a tornado was 150 years old. How old is this guy? In Summer he still sports a lush crown.

Here is another picture of Bill with my son sitting on one of his limbs. This gives you an idea as to the enormity of this tree. My son is taller than me. Normally Cottonwoods live only 80 years, then they dry up or blow over. I remember when I lived in Colorado. There were numerous Cottonwoods there, dead on their feet, bleached white skeletons against the tawny landscape.

So what is Bill's secret? Behind the Cottonwood a mere 15 feet runs the Des Moines River. The town of Windom home to many very old Cottonwoods like Bill is built around the Des Moines. These trees receive a steady supply of moisture. Instead of fading around year 80, they continue to add growth rings and mature into very individual majestic trees. So I call this Cottonwood 'Bill' my Psalm 1 tree.

House Hugger

Englemann Spruce 'hag' that lives in front of my house.

The birds suddenly flee from the Oak's glittering crown as she stirs from her verdant meadow. The commericiel shows closeups of the roots and trunk of our tree-ish star. She sneaks past other bushes and trees. She is easily recognizable by that glossy leafy coiffure that stands out from the other vegetation. Her crown bounces as she quickly skitters across a highway, not wanting to be spotted by drivers. The effect is almost sassy. Her destination is a house in the other meadow, the object of her curiosity. The gate slams behind her as she sneaks through it. She eavesdrops through the windows looking at all the environmentally friendly appliances as the announcer describes the eco-friendly home. Upon meeting her approval, the house gets a leafy hug. This secretive but lovely Oak does get spotted by a pair of farmers that call her a 'House Hugger'. I applaud GE for this adorable commercial.

My house isn't so lucky. It doesn't have a gorgeous Oak hugging it. At the top of this post is the house hugger in my front yard. She is a native Englemann Spruce about 150 years old. She is no beauty. In fact I would call her a hag. She fairly bristles at her midriff with dead sticks. I removed a good number of them already with a saw. It seems all the pretty trees on my 3/4 acre lot are behind the house fawning over the giant king Cottonwood in front of the river.

The small town of Windom where I live seems to be a haven for trees. There lifespans are unusually long. Last summer I counted the growth rings on a Cottonwood taken down by a rope tornado. on a limb that had been up high in her crown I counted 138 growth rings. An aborist had said the tree was 150 years old. This tree was half the size of the giant in my backyard. More on Cottonwood in a forthcoming blog entry.

I may not have a sassy lovely Oak on my property, but it is a haven for very old yet still healthy trees. My spruce still has a thick crown. Each Spring, her new growth is almost silver white in a stunning display. The wife of the man who built the house in 1968, say the grove long predates the house. That old Spruce hag looked the same in 1968.

Eau de Ginkgo

The illustration is my own. The Ginkgo is lovely with a reputation of smelling bad.

The female Ginkgo is infamous for the stench of her squishy fruits. I have had numerous encounters with this tree when I was a child. My first encounter was as a junior high school girl on a paper route delivering store ads in Ventura, California. Even then I was fascinated with trees and read every book I could find about them. I was already familiar with the legendary female Ginkgo and her putrid fruits. I was walking down a quiet street with my back aching from my bag full of Two Guys ads. There I was confronted with a giant, rather majestic Ginkgo and her mate. The sidewalk was slimy with her fruit drop, but the tree was a thing of beauty with her branches spread against the grey winter sky. There was no putrid smell as described in the books. I passed by that tree week after week and never once did she reek in the cool Ventura clime.

Now in my years in southern California I did encounter two stinkers in the Tree kingdom, neither of which are the Ginkgo. The first is the Ailanthus, Tree of Heaven. The cambium and leaves of this tree give off a foul smell when crushed. The pollen of the male stinks.

The worst stinker I have met is the Acacia. This fellow's cologne smells something akin to axle grease! Parks in California love to plant this guy because of his showy white or purple blooms.

Since moving out of California I have met another stinker, the Bradford Pear. In the Spring she is a lovely looking cloud of white flowers, but she smells like Play Doh. I presently have one of these pungent ladies on the corner of my front lawn. Neighbors, long moved away are the ones responsible for planting her.

Now back to the Ginkgo. When I joined the Navy, I moved from California and didn't see another Ginkgo until I settled in Lincoln, Nebraska. Lincoln is a city of trees. Streets would have a theme tree. One of its main avenues has the Ginkgo. Many of these lovelies make their home in Lincoln. On one street there is one very large majestic tree--female. She looks like a matriarch looking over her brood. Still no smell, even though she fruited quite well one year. Her care taker cleaned up after her. The following year she didn't fruit. I wonder if he sprayed her with something or if the wind shifted and her beau could not blow her his kisses. Then I was walking down the same street on a blazing hot September afternoon and I was hit with this awful smell! It was not unlike a bedpan after a sick person has used it. I looked down to see tawny wrinkled berries. My eyes followed the mess of berries to a yellowing lawn and its golden leafed occupant. She seemed smug as a cat scurried up her silver grey trunk. This was the my first and only encounter thus far with Eau de Ginkgo.

So in order for a female Ginkgo to smell, the weather needs to be hot and her fruit needs to be allowed to just lie there. I have read it is the pit rotting that produces the vomit-like stench. Here in the little rural town of Windom where I now live, the town square has a Ginkgo couple. Fortunately, the park keepers clean up after the lady Ginkgo, so there is no smell.