
It may not be immediately obvious or dramatic, but the large tree in the middle of the picture is a white birch. It towers over the red maple and the beeches that are to its left. White birches do not often attain such size, nor are they long-lived, at least in our part of the world. This particular white birch is old and imposing and thriving and healthy.
Yet a few years ago this birch appeared to be at death's door. It sported only a handful of yellow leaves on its thin senescent crown.
Inasmuch as it was old tree (in white-birch years) we all assumed that it had come to the end of its natural days. There was a vigorous family debate on whether it should be submitted to the chain saw before it fell over -- perhaps dangerously -- of its own accord. The consensus was to give it another year. It was a good decision -- as can be plainly seen.
I have no idea what why the birch sprang from its hospital bed. Was it a victim of some nameless illness that it had overcome? Had it been merely listless and depressed? Had its local environment altered? Perhaps some noxious insect pest had arrived, tried for a kill, failed, and then decamped. I have no theory --it's a total mystery, as is so much in life. Nevertheless, I'm happy to welcome the birch back into our community. May it have many more happy years.
Meanwhile, just steps away, was a young vigorous yellow birch. Yellow birches are not as striking or famous as their white-barked cousins, but to my mind they are by far the better tree. They are, at least in our neck of the woods, larger, better shaped, longer-lived, and their wood is superior for either furniture or flooring or fuel. Their bark is a splendid glistening yellow gold. A tree to prize.
But, alas, not this particular yellow birch. Last summer it was a burgeoning adolescent, adding more than 18 inches of growth a season. This year, I'm sorry to report, dead as a doornail.
inge
Not a single leaf. Not the slightest sign of life. This is an ex tree.
The yellow birch was in a perfect position and was one that I had counted on to live for at least a hundred years, perhaps two hundred. A tree that should have lasted centuries and been an ornament to the property and a delight to grandchildren and great-grandchildren -- under whose spreading boughs picnics and other rural pleasures would have been enacted far into the future.
But that's the inconstancy of life on earth. One tree, supposedly a short-lived one, springs to life while another, with a grand future, suddenly and inexplicably succumbs to the fate that awaits us all.
Mutability, they used to call it. Precarious, I'd say. "All is flux."
We are grateful that we had the yellow birch for as long as it lasted, and grateful also that the white birch has decided to stick around -- perhaps for another couple of decades.