My back yard is home to many trees, all of which arrived via Volkswagen bus. Largest is the emerald queen maple, which I planted when my son Alex, now forty years of age, was a boy.
Tallest is a Swedish aspen, which I didn’t know was columnar when I planted it behind the garage. Instead of spreading outward, it shot straight up–so tall now that it towers over all the others.
Along the west fence I planted two plum trees, one of which has since died. A dwarf Jonathan apple I planted in the way back, confident that it wouldn’t impinge on overhead power lines, yet it seems determined to do so. The more I prune it back, the more aggressively it grows.
Fact is, I’m not a horticulturist and didn’t do much research before planting my urban forest. Many saplings I plopped into holes excavated by our dog Tippy, whose idea of a perfect landscape would be Craters of the Moon National Monument.
One of my favorite trees was an aspen that shaded the west side of the guest cottage until it was toppled by a hurricane force wind four years ago. Cutting up and disposing of the supine aspen, beneath which I’d spent many a happy summer afternoon lazing in a hammock, was a heartbreaking chore.
Lo and behold, he following spring a dozen aspen offshoots sprang up. I’ve since learned that aspens are genetically immortal–witness Pando, a single root system in central Utah that has spawned 47,000 trees spanning 107 acres.
Among my backyard aspen grove are four spawned by the towering Swede. I may or may not live to see them attain the lofty height of their parent tree; however, it does give me something to look forward to. Is there such a thing as too much shade? As air temperatures in the valley are expected to soar to a hundred degrees this weekend, I think not.
