Pine Tree by the River
By
Valerie L. Egar
Mitch and his
grandfather walked a worn path to the river, fishing poles in hand. A tall pine
grew at the edge of the riverbank, towering over them, its girth too big to
encircle with arms. “It’s so big it would take three people, maybe four to put
their arms around it!” Mitch said.
His grandfather
nodded. “It was here when I was a boy, with another like it over there.” The old man pointed to a bare spot near the
water’s edge.
“What happened?”
“Nor’easter. Wind
uprooted it.”
Sunlight filtered
though the tree’s dark green needles, dappling the ground. The boy patted the
tree’s bark. “How old is the tree?”
His grandfather
considered. “It was big when I was a boy, but I don’t know how old it is. I’m
sure there’s a way to figure it out, though. I’ll ask my friend Dan. He’ll
know, he’s a forester.” Grandpa lifted
his fishing pole. “Now let’s get down to some fishing!”
Later that week,
Grandpa asked Mitch if he wanted to walk to the river. “To fish?”
When they arrived
at the riverbank, Grandpa extended the measuring tape and asked Mitch to walk
it around the tree. Mitch marched around the tree and handed his end to
Grandpa. Grandpa held the tape chest high— a little bit taller than Mitch— and
called out a number. “One hundred twenty-eight inches.”
“Should I write
that down?” Mitch asked.
“Good idea.”
They sat on the
riverbank and Grandpa took out the calculator. “We’ll never know exactly how
old the tree is, but when we’re finished, we’ll have a good estimation of its
age, OK?”
Mitch nodded.
“The first thing
is to figure out what the diameter of the tree is. Do you know what that is?”
“No.”
“It’s the
measurement across the middle of a circle. If I cut the tree down and measured
across the trunk, that would be the diameter. But, we don’t want to cut the
tree down.”
“Right.”
Mitch looked at
what he’d written, “One hundred twenty-eight.” He slowly tapped “128” into the
calculator.
“To find the
diameter, divide by 3.14.”
Mitch raised his
eyebrows when he saw 40.764331 appear on
the screen. “The tree is only 40? You’re
older than that!”
Grandpa laughed.
“We aren’t finished yet. Different trees grow at different rates. Some grow
fast, some slow. Do you know what kind of tree that is?”
“Pine.”
“Yes, white pine.
According to Dan, they have a growth rate of five. Multiply the number on your
calculator by five. If it were a different kind of tree, we’d use a different
number.”
Mitch’s eyes
widened. “203.82165?”
“Let’s just say
two hundred four, OK? Now subtract two hundred four from 2018 and you have some
idea when the tree sprouted.”
“1814.”
Grandpa nodded.
“Just imagine.
Your ancestors had just settled in these parts, built the farmhouse, cleared
the land. Big trees had been cut and floated down the river, to build ships and houses. This little
seedling sprang up, a bristle of dark green at the top.
“Wild game was
plentiful. Moose and bear walked by the little tree, maybe even a cougar coming
to the river to drink.
“It grew bigger.
Our country was young, only thirty-eight years old. There were probably bigger
trees around the sapling and many of them were cut for lumber, but the tree was
small and near the water. People left it alone.
“Bridges were
built across the river, but not here. This tree was left to grow.
“Every single one
of your ancestors who lived here passed by the tree, played under it, fished by
it. They picked up pinecones for kindling, picnicked by it. If the tree could
talk, it could tell you stories about all of them.”
Mitch patted the
tree. That was something to think about.
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Copyright 2018 by Valerie L. Egar. May not be published, reproduced or distributed without permission from the author.
Published August 26, 2018 Biddeford Journal Tribune (Biddeford, ME)
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