On the Parting of a Pair of Parkway Pear Trees

The temperatures were unseasonably warm today, reaching almost 80 degrees, and I went for a solo walk in my favorite park before lunchtime. I’ve walked these paths countless times before, but today I did something I have never taken much time to do: I stopped and read each tree marker and tried to notice the particular characteristics of the various species. I admired the greyish-green peeling bark of the American sycamore, the massive bulk of the burr oak’s trunk, and the bone white branches of the paper birches along the river. None have their leaves yet, so it was like getting to know them in their starkest forms.

Yesterday the city arborist (isn’t it so cool we have that?!) rang my doorbell to discuss a matter of our parkway trees, and I told him, “I’m a tree lover.” But then, I realized I knew so little about the different kinds. Maples make syrup, and we have two different ones in our backyard. Lilacs perfume the end of the school year. Ashes have died because of bugs, not that I would recognize one if I saw it. As a writer, I realized my tree knowledge was sorely lacking, and I vowed to do better.

The arborist was visiting because last year they removed the two Bradford pear trees that stood sentinel over our front yard. Bradfords, also known as Callery pear trees, were once a popular choice for their tall stature, attractive pear-shaped crowns, and delicate white spring flowers. Oh, how I loved when those trees bloomed! The street lamp would illuminate them in a heavenly nighttime show against the indigo evening sky. Seven years ago this month we moved in; soon after they blossomed, and I thanked my lucky stars for such beauties.

But with every beauty, there is its beasty counterpart—and those flowers stunk.

Let’s just say . . . they stunk like what their purpose is, the tree’s sexual reproduction. Those flowers might have looked feminine, but when they opened, they smelled masculine, and were spent, if you know what I mean. I’d be out tending to the garden and I’d get a whiff and be like, “What does that remind me of?” and then I’d be like, “Ohhhh” and blush a little. They were better appreciated indoors with the windows closed!

Not only that, Bradford pears are considered invasive and quite breakable. Every year I’d have to cut back all the pesky saplings that grew around their bases. And whenever a storm would blow through, a huge branch would snap and the city had to come out and clean it up. Finally, the city decided it was time for the Bradford pears to meet their maker. I watched gloomily as they pulled the chainsaw and started taking down branches, then sliced the trunk into thick chunks, leaving behind a sad stump. I couldn’t help but think of the Giving Tree, and how something once so grand had been reduced to a pathetic nub.

I went out and talked with the arborist, disclosed my love of those conflicting trees, and asked in my sweetest voice if he would consider replacing it in the spring with something pretty or special. He assured me he’d try his best, and I tried not to get my hopes up.

Earlier this month, the city ground the remains of the trees, the dust of the finely shredded wood billowing in the air like ashes poured from an urn. Then a small white flag with the city logo on it appeared in the bare parkway strip of grass. It had writing on it.

I couldn’t resist. I went right out to read it—what would it say? Tulip tree, which flowers in spring and turns brilliant in fall? Hawthorn, a member of the rose family? My yard’s fate was waving at me in what I hoped was a sign of truce.

HACKBERRY.

In all caps, someone had written, “Hackberry.”

What the hell is a hackberry? The name sounded like when you cough up phlegm.

I searched it on the internet, and look, I don’t want to be prejudiced against any trees. They all have their place on this beautiful planet. They purify the air, provide food and a home for birds and creatures, and connect underground in a symbiotic network with the earth. The articles I found on the “Common” hackberry were titled things like “Trash Tree,” “Pull It or Plant It,” and—this one makes me chuckle, from the Arbor Day Foundation—“One Tough Tree.” While the tree is fast growing, has distinguished bark, and is a host to copious types of wildlife, it is also prone to infestations on the leaves which make them warty, and in the fall they turn vomity-colored before falling off. You’ll often find them growing in cracks of pavement near abandoned industrial plants or lining ditches of highways.

The dreamer in me was struggling!

I called the arborist sheepishly at the start of the next business day and left a message to see if we could discuss our options. He showed up at our door, gracious and understanding. That’s when I told him what a “tree lover” I was. He listed off several choices, and we landed on one I think hits on many of my romantic, poetic ideals. He informed me it should get planted toward the end of April, which happens to be the time of our wedding anniversary, when the daffodils will open their mouths in chorus around our front yard, and when our now-gone Bradford pears would have bloomed.

May the new tree be a source of shade, a sign of welcome, and a celebration of nature for all the years our family lives here.

And if I’m lucky, may it be inspirational.