Tree Things on My Mind 

One – When I retired as a pastor after 41 years I changed my occupational status to “Tree farmer.”  Our 4.2 acres in the Endless Mountains of Northeast Pennsylvania provides me with plenty of justification for that title.  A number of years ago during a gathering of four generations of our family, we planted two oak trees, one for each firstborns of the fourth generation. Over time we have added several more including one for each of the next little ones to join the family and two to mark the final resting place of our beloved Black Labs.  There’s one we dug up as a seedling from the edge of a friend’s pasture and another imported from a daughter’s back yard.  There are a couple that we transplanted from spots where squirrels had buried acorns along the fence in the Manse in West Pittston.  Most of them hold onto their leaves all winter before gradually letting them go as one of the first signs of Spring.  Ever so slowly the buds appear and begin to open, revealing tiny, tender leaves. It is awe inspiring to watch them all grow.

Two -  A dozen years ago we read in the local newspaper that the county extension office was taking orders for all kinds of trees, shrubs and plants at reasonable prices.  We sent in our order for twenty Norway Spruce trees.  We planned to plant them along one part of our property line as a buffer between a field and some woods owned by the Tennessee Gas Pipeline.  On an April Saturday morning, having heard that one of my nearest and dearest friends had died in the night, I drove my pick-up truck with tears in my eyes to the county garage in Montrose to ready to fill the bed with our future forest.  After waiting in line I stepped up and gave my name to the smiling volunteer at the table.  She quickly turned and went into the garage bay behind her and returned with a plastic grocery bag with twenty seedlings. Each seedling was a single green stalk, 18 inches long.  With the bag stashed on the floor behind my seat, I drove back to Paddleberry Farms giggling at the size of my cargo.  Two days later, as I contem-plated what I would say in the Sermon to be preached at my friend’s funeral, I dug twenty tiny holes and planted the first row of what we lovingly call the McSwegin Rational Forest.  Over the next several years I repeated the Saturday journey to Montrose and the Monday planting ritual. Those seedlings are now nearly 18 feet high and provide nesting and resting spots for our feathered neighbors.  Winter, Spring, Summer and Fall, these trees point heavenward and lift our spirits. 

Three -  Of course when it comes to trees, what grows up must come down.  Windstorms prune branches and call for a game of pick-up-sticks.  The dreaded Emerald Ash Borers have tunneled        beneath the bark of towering Ash trees and literally sucked the life out of them.  Insect cousins have done the same to some of our other species of evergreens.  We’ve stimulated the economy by hiring young men to take down dead Ash trees or help me split and stack firewood.  I’ve dropped a few of the needleless pines and spruces, bucked them into fireplace length and piled them by the edge of our road with a “Free Campfire Wood” sign.  Within days, sometimes just hours, the pile finds its way to a new home.  In the fall of 2018 a windstorm dropped some Scotch Pines at the far corner of what one granddaughter calls the forest.  They landed on the trail I use to snowshoe in winter and walk the rest of the year.  One of them provided a high tunnel supported by branches driven into the ground as it fell.  At Thanksgiving that year my son-in-law cleared some of it away, but chose not to try and cut over our heads, since one could easily walk underneath.  Gradually gravity took its toll and the top of the tunnel got closer and closer to the ground, so that earlier this week I could no longer ride under it without doing the limbo on my mower.  Time to get the chainsaw!  Yesterday all went well as I cut off some of the larger limbs to gain access to what I hoped would be the first cut of the trunk.  Gambling that the upper branches would still provide enough support, I forged ahead.  First cut, part way through; second to slice out a wedge; before I could pull out the weight shifted, pinching the saw in place. 

Shut off engine. Study the situation caused by impatience.  Plot a new course. Retrieve a 4x4 timber and my father’s old house jack from the garage.  Carefully jack the trunk up an inch or two relieving the pressure. Pull out the wedge and the saw.  Restart the engine; with the wedge gone, finish the cut. Make a few more cuts; remove the jack and timber; slice a few more pieces.  

Shut down saw; pile logs to the side. Gather up all the equipment, start up the Quad, and drive through the gap and back to the garage.  The path is clear and there’s one more item crossed off  to-do list.  The tree farmer, having solved a problem of his own making, gave thanks for the strength and persistence to see a task through with the help of an ancient house jack kept because he might need it one day.