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Cutting Down 112 Years of Tree History in One Day

On her last morning with us, the copper beech gave one last glorious color show when her leaves were lit up by the early morning sun.
On her last morning with us, the copper beech gave one last glorious color show when her leaves were lit up by the early morning sun.
The top, or crown, of the 85-foot tall tree, where sky and tree joined.
The top, or crown, of the 85-foot tall tree, where sky and tree joined.
The plywood arrives. It will be used to make a safe area for the trucks to park without sinking into the yard or breaking the sidewalk.
The plywood arrives. It will be used to make a safe area for the trucks to park without sinking into the yard or breaking the sidewalk.
Plywood is down, the cherry picker truck is in place.
Plywood is down, the cherry picker truck is in place.
It begins.
It begins.

85-Foot Tall Tree Felled in Only 6 Hours

It began in the clear crispness of a May morning.

First to arrive was the cherry picker truck that would lift man and chainsaw into the leafy branches.

Then came the chipper that would grind leaves, twigs and branches into a pile of mulch.

There was a slight pause as we all looked up at the regal copper beech, shielding our eyes from the sharp morning sun, a last moment of homage to a tree who had served well beyond her years. She remained strikingly beautiful to the end.

The motor of the cherry picker arm whined as it lifted man and saw into the branches.

The chainsaw motor started growling.

Small branches began to fall, as if testing the ground for the later arrival of the bigger pieces.

Three hours of trimming small branches, then bigger limbs thunked into the ground with the sickening sound of finality.

A piece would fall, sending vibrations through the ground as the “thunk” sounded across the neighborhood, combined with an occasional “clunk” when one piece would land on another.

Each time a piece fell, I flinched with pain as it landed. Yet, I could not leave. As the tree’s guardian and caretaker, it was my duty to be near the 112-year-old copper beech as she was felled.

Old and sick and tired, yet she was still so beautiful that her destruction caused a deep shock and mourning for those driving by. Many had mouths hanging open, shock in their eyes.

At one point, the cable that connected the double trunks was snapped by a falling branch. Both trunks waved in the air, one threatening to fall on the house, the other to fall toward the street.

As the trunks swayed, it felt as though the world stopped, we all held our breath and waited. Then the trunks stilled, and the cutting continued.

The problem with cutting down a tree, believing it to be rotted, is that you don’t really know until it is too late if you are right or wrong.

As the tree was felled and the wood looked so solid, doubt began to sink in.

Then the section of the trunk that had been the first indicator of rot was slowly lowered into the truck, nestled into place, count to three…and the piece shattered.

It was then we all knew how close we had come to disaster.

With the final cut, there was doubt no more. The trunk at ground level had a large area so rotted that it looked like someone had filled the center of the tree with chocolate pudding, as if it were some kind of demented dessert.

The tree cutting crew said that what would have happened is the rotted area of the trunk would have split it in half, causing it to fall in two different directions, leaving the second of the twin trunks to fall toward the house. There was little to nothing structural holding up the immense 85-foot-tall tree.

It took 112 years to grow, but only six hours to cut down, chip and haul the tree away. Six hours and it was over. It seems like it should have taken longer out of respect for nature’s work.

It is time for change, a time for a new tree, a new look, and perhaps a change in life’s path from a long stretch of unemployment to success.

We are looking forward to the tomorrows to come and to finding the tree who will earn the honor of taking the place of our beloved copper beech tree.

The beautiful patterns in the wood can be seen in these logs.
The beautiful patterns in the wood can be seen in these logs.
One of the many house windows that was once filled with a tree-side view. Within a few hours, even the remaining trunks were gone.
One of the many house windows that was once filled with a tree-side view. Within a few hours, even the remaining trunks were gone.
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Even without branches, the tree dwarfs man and truck
Even without branches, the tree dwarfs man and truck
The chipped tree
The chipped tree
Using the crane to lift logs into the back of the truck
Using the crane to lift logs into the back of the truck
Trimming logs that are too long for the truck.
Trimming logs that are too long for the truck.
Guiding the fall
Guiding the fall
In the background, on the ground, is the final piece of trunk turned on its side. The extensive rot is now obvious.
In the background, on the ground, is the final piece of trunk turned on its side. The extensive rot is now obvious.
Where a limb fell
Where a limb fell
A view not seen since 1900.
A view not seen since 1900.
The rot at ground level
The rot at ground level
The rot has the consistency of chocolate pudding. There were other, less obvious signs of decay, almost 100 percent of the trunk had died and rotted.
The rot has the consistency of chocolate pudding. There were other, less obvious signs of decay, almost 100 percent of the trunk had died and rotted.
For the first time in decades, the side of the house is exposed to sunlight.
For the first time in decades, the side of the house is exposed to sunlight.

For the full story on the copper beech tree’s history, please see the post 112-Year-Old Copper Beech Tree Loses Her Battle. 

Copyright 2017 A. Barnes | All Rights Reserved.

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Living with History: Raising Kids in a National Treasure

A stack of plates the escaping slaves ate from and then hid in the dirt floor of the basement. The basement was one of the hiding places during the years of the Underground Railroad.

A stack of plates the escaping slaves ate from and then hid in the dirt floor of the basement. The basement was one of the hiding places during the years of the Underground Railroad.

We live with a small zoo of assorted animals, with numbers that fluctuate so much it is hard to get an exact count, in a home that happens to be on the National Register of Historic Places.

Counting pets always causes a debate as to whether the feeder crickets (which are food for other pets, but we house and feed them like pets), the two nests of finch eggs that haven’t hatched yet, as well as the baby canaries that are on their way to being sold, should be included in the count. Thank goodness the dogs don’t have fleas, which would further complicate the answer!

Many people have asked, “Why so many pets?” I honestly don’t know, perhaps it has something to do with my growing up on a little farm in Oklahoma or maybe I just never learned to limit love. Whatever the reason, in addition to the pets, there are four energetic children bouncing around in our historic 1840s home.

When you first have children, the common advice is to pack away all fragiles until they move out. I’ve always wondered how to accomplish that when it’s the house itself that is priceless. Bubble wrap? Everywhere? What it definitely means is trying to teach the children what having a living museum for a home means. It causes some rather interesting discussions concerning how care should be taken since we can’t go to the store and simply replace that which is broken when the basketball suddenly (and by itself, of all miracles!) flies through the air and meets up with history.

The house gained its historic status by being a part of the Underground Railroad. The man who was the railroad conductor here owned the home in the 1850s and was the founder of the town’s first bank (which still existed until a few years ago), general store clerk, newspaper editor, a friend of Abraham Lincoln, general everyman, and do-gooder of our town.

Some would feel that a family actually living in the house is an inappropriate use for a building on the National Register of Historic Places. They are the ones who would open a stiff, cold museum of hushed voices and perfect restorations and spotless fixtures in the house.

We’re not perfect or spotless. We’re noisy and we spill juice and snort milk out our noses if we crack up at the wrong moment. In the mix of our lives is the occasional added commotion of pets that escape. As the gleeful escapee flies, flits, crawls, or hops through the historic rooms, the warning call is raised. Everyone available joins in energetic pursuit with a variety of nets, pots, cups, spoons, and anything else close at hand that can be used to catch the runaway.

Somehow the bustle and chaos of our lives that bounces off the walls seems more in keeping with the house’s history than if it were a museum. It has, after all, been a holder and protector of families for 172 years. My children and their friends playing chase and hide-n-seek through its halls keep alive the spirits of children past, children who played the same games, squealed with the same joy, and caught the ancestors of the lightning bugs my children now catch. On rainy Easters we have the greatest indoor egg hunts, with some eggs not found until months later (sometimes while chasing a runaway pet).

We walk the same floors that so many people before us walked. When we cry, our tears join with the countless oceans of tears the walls must have heard wept. Our laughter melds with the infinite waves of laughter that have lapped at the corners and crevices of this dear old house.

The house has a life, a beat of its own, that blends with ours in such a way that it has become like a member of our family (although, a very old member of the family!). I’m not really sure if the house has blended with us or if we have blended with it.

Someone once tried to make an offer on the house. I was so startled, I didn’t even ask what the offer was. This is home. It is not for sale. In a time and world where homes are only houses, thought of as investments and temporary, few understand my connection to this house and my dedication to its well being.

It often is said that times have changed, that values have been lost, that children know too much too soon. Perhaps that is true, but we lose only what we are willing to give up. We make a choice when nourishing our souls becomes secondary to investments and money making.

Oh, and the exact number of pets? We honestly don’t know, but we always invite visitors to count for themselves!

A corner of our historic home, can you see any escaped pets?

To share this or to leave a comment, please click on the title at the top of this post. Thank you!

Copyright 2017 A. Barnes | All Rights Reserved.
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Welcome to the Col. H. G. Blake House

In 1998, when I met this wonderful house, all I knew was that it was in a beautiful area and it fit perfectly the description of the house I would love to live in, right down to the double set of staircases.

What I had not included in the dream house description was that it would be on the National Register of Historic Places. That was a wonderful bonus that was revealed as the final papers were being signed. I didn’t even know that ordinary people like me could own a National Register site.

Turns out that other potential buyers had walked away from the house when they learned it was on the register. They thought there would be too many rules to living here (more about this in a future post).

The day I walked in the house for the first time, it felt like a hundred souls rushed forward to hug me. Everyone has their own explanation for that, I simply accepted that this was to be the place I would live and that I would fight for its survival.

The longer I have lived here, the more I have learned that fighting for this home’s survival is never ending, from defending it from the developers who wanted it so they could bulldoze the house and use this prime piece of real estate for commercial purposes to those who think that smashing beer mugs on the sidewalk is entertainment.

This site is dedicated to the battles as well as to the wonderful stories that happen from living in the arms of history, to the sharing of the important history this amazing home has been a part of, to the preservation of one of the last National Register of Historic Places sites that is still in private hands, with just a touch of the stories that could be the result of spirits who may have remained.

Little did I realize how much this one move in life would lead to, the wonderful people who would walk through the doors, the amount of history hidden throughout the property and house, and how this property, which has always been known to house strong, independent souls would help me find mine.

To share this or to leave a comment, please click on the title at the top of this post. Thank you!

Copyright 2017 A. Barnes | All Rights Reserved.