On falling trees, Marcella and grandchildren

"If a tree falls in a forest and there is nobody around, does it make a sound?"

That well-known question without an answer popped into my mind when I learned that one of the oldest trees at the farmhouse on Forest Hill Road had fallen victim to the ice storm that swept through portions of Clinton County last week.

No one was there when it fell.

So, did it make a sound – a cracking, crunching noise when its one, huge limb snapped and hit the ground? Or was there silence – a peaceful release for a grand old tree that had provided shade to our family for close to 100 years?

My brother informed me about the tree being down when I returned to St. Johns after spending a few days in Charlevoix with grandchildren, Ella and Jack. By that time, Rollie had already cut up most of the branches and had the wood stacked neatly in piles.

Only the trunk was left – hollow, for the most part; certainly the cause of the tree’s demise.

We had talked for years about having the tree taken down – actually, what was left of the old Box Elder tree, that is. A majority of its huge branches had been severed from the trunk several years ago when a "low-top" tornado dipped from the sky above the farm, destroying an out building and snapping off several other lovely, young Maple trees.

At that time, my dad surveyed the damage – being thankful that the branches had barely missed falling directly on the house. Since it was the only shade tree left on the south side of the house, we decided to not cut down what was left of it – better to leave the trunk and one massive branch remain.

Let the old tree fall, naturally – unaided by a chainsaw’s whining blade.

And so, it did – with no one there to witness its passing.

Perhaps it enjoyed the solitary experience.

No matter, really. It had certainly earned a rest.

While its age is undetermined, the tree is visible in several old family photos that were taken in the early 1930s. At that time, the tree appears to be little more than a young sapling – maybe 10 years old or so. If my mother’s memory was intact, she undoubtedly could provide information about the tree’s origin. We do not have the luxury of her recollections, of course.

Maybe that’s why the passing of the old tree seems especially sad.

My mother, who was born in that house where the tree most likely stood outside the south bedroom window, has no memory of her home – her life at that time, or few other event for that matter.

Alzheimer’s continues its assault on her brain – destroying its core, just like the old tree.

When she passes, will we be there with her – or will she fall alone, without family by her side?

We pray not.

* * * * * *

It’s important that I switch gears for a bit – going from the sadness of my mom’s condition to the joy of grandchildren.

My mom would approve of Caleb’s cookie-baking skills, I know. Well, maybe ‘skill’ is the wrong word – his greatest ability is licking the bowl, beaters and spoons that Grandma Rhonda uses to make the cookie dough.

In fact, like other kids (and more than a few adults I know), eating cookie dough is often preferable to the finished product. More than a few cookies never make it to the baking sheets when Caleb is in charge.

That’s fine. It’s what cookie baking is all about.

His "older" sister, Gwendolyn still enjoys mixing and baking cookies, too, although not as much she used to when she was "little."

Now, playing with her Oakview School classmates – and getting dressed up for events like the "Butterfly Ball" – is more her style. She certainly did look very ‘grown up’ a few weeks ago when her father had the honor of accompanying Gwen to the Daddy-Daughter Dance.

It’s impossible to believe that she’s halfway through second grade – where does the time go?

The swift passage of time is always evident whenever I see the Charlevoix grandkids, Ella and Jack. Little brother has almost caught up with his big sister in terms of height – and already passed her in weight a few months ago. What a guy he is – two years old going on 10, I swear.

Lovely Ella is as sweet as ever – most of the time, anyway. While she clearly is the daughter of both her parents – demonstrating character traits of each – there are times when Ella becomes the little stinker with less than a great disposition that I remember so well from her father.

Aaron’s nickname was "Peeler," and he could be just that – a headstrong and stubborn little boy. Like his daughter, however, he was so cute it was impossible to maintain the "strict parent" façade for too long.

Wayne says I’m still softhearted, and I suppose he’s right.

Who else but a true softie would shed tears over an old Box Elder tree?