Death in the Family
Wednesday, April 30th, 2008The old oak tree on the south side of our farmhouse is now gone. The children were out playing in the rain. We were at the kitchen table. Heard a thud. And it was over.
On its way out it destroyed both of our wood sheds-which were lovingly constructed out of re-used barn board by Stacey several years ago-and a deer fence which protects the garden-and the aged volunteer plum tree which shades the Dog Mahal (which sits without a scratch).
But that’s merely a list of stuff. And stuff is not nearly as important as the gigantic hole that has been blown into the sky, and for that matter, into our lives.
This house was built in 1917 by a subsistence farm family which survived, but never prospered. The oak was on the south side where its summer foliage shaded the house from the sun. Losing its leaves in winter, it allowed the sun to warm the house. Simple, passive solar house design.
Nowadays we would hurry off to NC State to study the subject. Back then it was probably just simple country wisdom. The rest of the house is surrounded by aged cedar trees, which were probably put in place (or allowed to stand) as wind breaks.
When I first moved to this house in 1990, one of my first acts was to hang a swing from a bough of the oak. Jess might remember playing on that swing. After the swing moved to Summer Shop, the oak held one end of the clothesline, which fell out of use long ago.
All of which pales in comparison to the tree itself. It was majestic. It felt ancient. It was a specimen oak on a property which has been logged for timber, cut over for firewood, and generally depleted by many generations of humans who have needed its resources for one reason or another.
On an abandoned farm with busted soils, with not an earthworm to be found, a ramshackle house and little in the way of bird life, there was the oak. It’s blossoms were our harbinger of spring, its shade afforded endless parties on the back deck, and its leaves formed the basis of both play, and compost, and mulch about the place.
Now when I enter the backyard garden, I am stunned by the light. Plants craving partial shade are now full sun. Light pours into the kitchen from our bathroom in a new, strange way. When I see it I think someone has left the light on-which makes no sense at all-and then I remember that the oak has fallen.
Looking up its vast trunk, we were stunned to learn that it was hollow. Perhaps we will encounter a solid portion near the crown where we can count the rings.
But for now, we simply sit stunned, like you do after someone you love has died. For now we are getting accustomed to its absence. Dreading the summer sun. And trying to fathom the vast firewood harvest which lies ahead…
Original post by Lyle
These days the Coop is actively engaged in the rain water business. They are in the space largely because of the containers they encounter in their travels. They have a good supply of ubiquitous “one way totes.” Those are the plastic cubes wrapped in aluminum which industry throws away instead of re-using. And they have barrels and plumbing parts and other rain water stuff for sale.
As a result of our discussions, Arlo and I have embarked on an elaborate rain water delivery system which is designed in part to prove Tim wrong, and in part to score an appropriate technology point.
Our soil is so rocky and hard that we tend to build up instead of trying to till down into it. We lay a soaker hose, we plant around its path, we sheet mulch with cardboard to block weeds, and we cover the cardboard with straw to make it look nice.
It appeared to be the perfect system, until Saturday night, when guests arrived for some Frisbee golf at the end of a long day of gardening. That’s when I left one of the soaker hoses running. And to my horror, by Sunday morning, I had delivered 200 gallons of precious rain water to the raspberries.
Subscribe to our feed