Trees and Mortality

“He that plants trees loves others besides himself.”

We’re in the middle of a timber harvest at our land in Central Minnesota. As I wrote in The God of Wild Places, a tornado scraped this land clean in 1973, and what grew back in place of the majestic White and Red pines was what we tree farmers call “soft woods.” (We are, indeed, tree farmers, since our property is a Registered Tree Farm.) That is, quaking aspen (poplar), bigtooth aspen, basswood, and maple. There’s some oak mixed in, and a few pines that came back from seed.

As part of our forestry management plan, we occasionally and selectively harvest portions of the property. We do this in stages because the healthiest forests have age diversity, as well as species diversity, in their stands. And a diverse forest is also best for wildlife, since different species prefer different types of forests.

The logging operation is impressive, with machines that do the unthinkable. I’d love to see nineteenth century lumberjack step out of a time machine and see this:

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The originator of the subtitle of this post was a seventeenth century cleric:

“He that plants trees loves others besides himself.” -Rev. Thomas Fuller (1608-1661)

The modern version of that proverb is:

“A man has made at least a start on discovering the meaning of human life when he plants shade trees under which he knows full well he will never sit.” -Elton Trueblood (The Life We Prize, 1914)

Or:

“A man who plants trees, knowing that he will never sit in their shade, has at least begun to understand the meaning of life.” -Wendell Berry (The Gift of Good Land, 1979)

We’ve planted a lot of trees around here, too. Probably in the neighborhood of myriad (10,000), mostly planted and tended by my brother, Ted. Next spring, we’ll plant at least 560 more in the acreage that’s been logged — White and Red pine, and spruce.

But for the most part, the forest won’t need our help. New Aspen will rise up in the area that is being flattened as I write this. A year from now, they’ll be waist-high. Two years from now, they’ll be over our heads.

I’ll stand in the shade of the Aspen, but not the pines. I know that. What I don’t know is who will tend them after I’m gone. My kids are in that liminal phase of early adulthood, excited to be living in new cities, spreading their wings without fear of having them clipped by dad. I often think of myself at their age, away in California, spreading my own wings. I dated a stand-up comic from North Dakota for a while. I surfed (badly) and made overnight runs to Tijuana. The last thing on my mind was growing trees in Central Minnesota. So I don’t blame them for not thinking about it now.

But maybe someday. I hope so. That they’ll sit in the shade of a tree and think of Ted and Pat and me, who planted them. Of their grandfather, who tended the land. Of their great-grandfather, whom they never met.

I know a lot of people are anxious about the world right now — maybe you are. Take my advice: plant a tree.