Naming The Trees

It is largely due to my Grampa Mac that I can identify the most common trees--maple, oak, shag-bark hickory, white birch, beech. These were the species that grew in the woods and along the hedgerows in my native Vermont. When it comes to more specific recognition--white oak, red oak, sugar maple, soft/swamp maple--I falter.

I came to know individual trees; the towering ancient maples that stood either side of the gravel driveway at Grampa's farm next door, trees from which dangled swings made with stout rope and sturdy plank seats.

There were graceful elms bordering each side of the dirt road, elms that even in my childhood were doomed by Dutch Elm disease.  The lone elm standing in the middle of the east meadow drew the attention of both amateur and professional photographers and artists. It survived for decades, long after others had toppled.

I knew the stand of shag-bark hickory that crowned the little ridge across the brook, the old butternut tree below the spring.

Each autumn I walked the rutted track that ran through the woods beneath a canopy of flaming maple and mellow golden beech.

When Jim and I married we lived for a number of years at the farm his parents had owned.

The dooryard there was dominated by catalpas with their fragrant spring blossoms and later clusters of hanging seed pods. We cherished the twisted Wolf River apple trees in the pasture beyond the pond, tolerated the thorny locust whose slender twiggy branches scratched at the side of the house in a storm.

Many of those New England species and their close relatives have appeared like familiar friends in our adopted Kentucky landscape. Others such as the towering magnolia, the sweet gum and the venerable 

Old-Timey pear at our first Kentucky property were new acquaintances.

At our current [dare I hope, final?] homeplace wooded ravines slope along the north and south boundaries. Trees are crowded, stretching skyward for available sunlight. Hickory abounds, as does tulip poplar, sycamore with its textured seedballs, spindly dogwoods and redbuds that disappear into summer anonymity when their spring bloom has faded.

I have been intrigued by a handsome tree which I couldn't name; not a huge tree, but shapely and eye-catching, standing solitary near the head of the gravel lane that connects us to the blacktop road.

Walking to and from the mailbox I notice this tree from the first hint of new leaves, the full green of summer, and now the brilliant red-orange shimmer that will soon give way to a stark winter silhouette. 

More recently I've discovered others of the same type, though less well grown, tucked into the east boundary hedgerow.

Several days ago a retired forester posted photos in the local online gazette of a glowing sassafras he had spotted. Cautiously excited, I googled 'sassafras' and found more photos, descriptions.

Of particular interest is the fact that a sassafras tree wears three distinctive shapes of leaves: a slender oval, a thumbed 'mitten' shape, a three-lobed leaf. 

Carrying my old Canon camera I strolled along the east boundary fence, snapping photos of smaller sassafras trees, then up the lane to the regal example decked out in its autumn glory of red-gold.

Learning the identity of  trees, being able to recognize and name them, is likely a bit of knowledge to be stored away as only of use or interest to myself.

Visual landscapes change with time; trees are cut down or succumb to wind storms, brutal winters, insect infestations. 

Those two sturdy maples from which dangled the swings of my childhood are long gone, as are the fence line elms which gave my grandfather's farm its name, 'Elm Row Farm.' 

The hollow-trunked Old Timey Pear has been removed from the Gradyville pasture by a subsequent owner.

In this place and in this time I look each morning from my bedroom window to enjoy the now familiar view of the tallest hickory; in summer I can follow the zooming flights of resident hummingbirds from the feeders on the porch eaves to their favorite refuge in the tulip poplar or sycamore. I know where to watch for the first flush of exuberant pink on the spindly redbuds and the froth of white on the dogwoods.

And now, trudging up the lane in all seasons I can name the sassafras tree.

The sassafras tree near the head of the lane.

Sassafras along the east boundary fence.

Glow of sassafras leaves with backdrop of the neighbor's pond and pasture.

Varied shapes of sassafras leaves.

Three-lobed sassafras leaf in red; below in yellow-gold.

 Papery seed heads of tulip poplar against October blue sky.

The sky has darkened this afternoon, wind has stirred the trees, leaves have whirled to the ground.

This evening rain has fallen, the first in the entire month of October.

As we turn the calendar page to November and the wheel of the seasons edges toward winter, I'll walk beneath bare branches marveling at their tracery against the sky, waiting for the return of leaf and bud.