A wise writer once said this: Certain places and living things become what we might call “anchors of being.” Symbols, yes, but not symbols we consciously assign meaning to, but presences and markers that absorb the mysterious essence of life all around them. When they’re gone, it can feel less like losing an object or friend in the realm of Nature, and more like losing a coordinate in one’s inner world. It becomes a missing piece in those private terrains of the heart we have mapped for ourselves, and have come to love, cherish and know intimately, until we don’t.
Last night I decided to go across the river to my old neighborhood, Harleston Village, and take a walk around Colonial Lake Park , as a I’ve done countless times over the past 30 years.
This place is a welcoming and familiar landmark, a tidal lake near the Ashley River in Charleston. You’ll see lots of walkers and joggers, and sometimes skateboarders and roller skaters. Also, lots of people walking dogs, every imaginable kind of dog. It’s a relaxing and picturesque spot on the map of Charleston.
I once lived only two blocks away, so it was a frequent walking destination. And my mother loved to take morning walks there in the days before she became ill and couldn’t anymore. I lived in her house in that old neighborhood for 12 years, taking care of her as her diabetes and dementia slowly and heartbreakingly worsened. When she couldn’t be by herself, home aides would there for part of the day and I could get out for my walks around Colonial Lake then.
Yesterday evening after sunset was cool and perfect for being outside on a March night. Signs of Spring were everywhere.
As I continued my walk after taking some photos, I came abruptly to a rather large patch of mulch where an enormous and majestic 100-year-old hackberry tree once stood, the ceaseless object of my awe and wonder for three decades whenever I was in its presence. It was always there, a symbol, a lush green beacon in summer, the dominant living thing at the park. It stood out. It was at home on that sweet patch of earth surrounded by azaleas and other flowers and plants. And it had obviously been well cared for over the years.
It didn’t occur to me that it would finally have to be cut down, at least not yet. You see, ten years ago a tropical storm and its huge tidal surge, inundated the lake and park with salty sea water. Most of the plants around the lake succumbed. The salty tree slayer fairly quickly doomed the smaller hackberry trees.
However, the Ancient One stood its ground until about three years ago when its leaves started curling up and falling much sooner than they should have. Each Spring over a span of four years, I noticed smaller and fewer leaves in was once a thick and bountiful crown. It was the kind of stately old tree you thought would be there forever.
Thus, it was a huge shock to see it entirely gone, and only that bare patch of ground to serve as a memorial to what once was one of the oldest and grandest trees in Charleston.
The old tree had had lots of room to grow when it was planted probably the early 1900s. Most hackberries grow tall and don’t have large crowns of branches and leaves. But this one did.
The common hackberry (Celtis occidentalis) is a medium to large deciduous tree, native to much of the United States, especially thriving in the Midwest and South.
Its most striking feature is its bark, covered with gray to brown corky ridges and wart-like protrusions, giving it a rugged, almost sculptural quality.
The texture and shape of the bark has often attracted artists and photographers. The bark certainly has fascinated me since I was a child, when I enjoyed, for no particular reason, pulling off the small, crusty protuberances.
When I was growing up, aged 6-10, a small grouping of tall hackberries in our back yard provided shade on hot summer days. They were grouped in front of a neighbor’s fence, so we kids could create imaginary Western towns under those trees with cardboard and pieces of plywood. My younger brother often climbed up into those trees, being quite limber and fearless, while I stayed earthbound. As you can see, I have many pleasant childhood memories of hackberry trees. I always will, and there are lots of them in Charleston.
There was never a time in the 30 years of our knowing each other (because I surely felt love and kinship for this great tree), that I did not pause on my walks to admire and photograph it. I never saw anyone else taking pictures of it. But I conspicuously did, sometime taking one after another from different viewpoints. I did this in all four seasons because the tree was as magnificent in its bare-branched grandeur during winter, as it was in Spring and Summer, robust and full of life. In Autumn the leaves turned brownish yellow, but it was not a colorful display. That didn’t matter. In summer its massive canopy of green announced to the world its health and vitality.
But now it’s gone. I was stunned when I finally resumed my walk, even taking a few pictures of the bare spot, as if to prove to me after I left that my favorite tree downtown was indeed no more, except in my memories
I shall miss it very much.
Summer
Spring
Winter
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