There are two empty spaces in our yard where old friends used to stand.
Not just trees. Old friends. The kind who have been around so long that you can't quite imagine the landscape, or your life, without them.
One was a magnificent oak, at least 100 years old. I know this because, yes, I counted the rings! It had been here long before our lake community existed, watching houses, roads, and families grow up around it.
We called it The Pic-a-nic Tree. And yes, that's pic-a-nic, as in Yogi Bear and his trusty sidekick, Boo Boo.
Not because we spread blankets beneath its branches or packed lovely lunches in wicker baskets. Oh, no. This was the preferred dining establishment of our neighborhood bears.
Whenever a bear managed to liberate our garbage, it would drag its treasures over to the oak, settle its big furry back against the trunk, and enjoy a leisurely feast. I could almost hear Yogi announcing, "Hey, Boo Boo! Let's go get us a pic-a-nic basket!"
Apparently, the ambiance was just right. Five stars for atmosphere, although the menu was a bit questionable.
And so, The Pic-a-nic Tree it became.
And then there was Sugah. My beautiful sugar maple, who shaded our home, helped protect the surrounding soil from storm damage and provided a bustling neighborhood for birds, squirrels and countless other creatures.
Every autumn, while the other trees were busy showing off their colors and dropping their leaves, Sugah took her sweet time. She was always the last to let go, holding onto her glorious oranges and golds until the very end.
She wasn't the warm-up band. She was the headliner.
Something rather curious about these two trees: both grew as double-trunked trees, two magnificent trunks rising from a shared base. And here's the interesting part. T wo sets of twins have lived in this home over the years. Coincidence? Destiny? A little wink from the universe? Who knows, but it's something I've thought about.
The oak had reached the end of its long life, and while Sugah appeared healthy from the outside, her center had rotted away, with a deep split extending all the way to her base. Sadly, neither could safely remain.
The evening before the tree crew arrived, I went outside to say goodbye to Sugah. I walked around her, studying her familiar shape, and then I spotted a bird's nest tucked among her branches.
And that broke me.
This wasn't just a tree we were losing. It was a home, a shelter, a part of the lives of so many creatures, including us.
Of course, I hugged her. How could I not? I wrapped my arms around her enormous trunk and thanked her for the shade, the beauty, the protection, the golden autumns, and all the years she had quietly stood watch over our home.
My husband and his siblings had never known life without these trees. They were already here, holding their places in the landscape long before so many of our family's stories began.
It's been a few weeks now, and I've only just been able to bring myself to visit the beautiful stumps left behind. Their rings and patterns tell stories of years gone by, and I find myself wondering what comes next.
Do I plant another tree?
Perhaps a ginkgo, with its lovely fan-shaped leaves that turn brilliant yellow in autumn? Or a hydrangea tree, whose blossoms change and evolve with the seasons? Both would be lovely.
But perhaps, for now, the best thing to plant is nothing at all. Maybe it's time to let the yard breathe.
Sugah's baby, a younger sugar maple nearby, spent years bending toward the sunlight in her mother's shadow. One side is nearly bare from reaching for whatever light she could find. Now she has room to stretch, fill out, and perhaps even straighten a little. There's something rather beautiful about that, isn't there?
And if you know me, you know I wasn't about to let these old friends disappear entirely.
For some time now, The Pic-a-nic Tree had been shedding pieces of bark covered in beautiful mosses and lichens, which I diligently collected. Those treasures are finding new life as walls and rooftops in the fairy cottages I create.
And Sugah? I made sure to save some of her branches. Her leaves have already become part of the botanical impressions I create on clothing, and her smaller branches will become special woven gifts, carrying a little of her story into other people's homes.
They're still giving.
Trees offer us so much more than shade, oxygen, and beauty. They give us a sense of belonging. They quietly mark the passage of time, standing beside us through celebrations, heartaches, ordinary Tuesdays, and extraordinary moments. And perhaps they remind us that even when something comes to an end, it can leave behind something beautiful.
For now, I'm going to let the yard find its new groove. I'll watch the sunlight fall in places it never reached before and see what grows in the space they've left behind.
The Pic-a-nic Tree and Sugah may no longer stand in our yard, but their stories aren't finished. They're simply taking on new shapes.
And every now and then, I suspect I'll still look out the window, expecting to see Sugah dressed in her autumn gold, or a bear enjoying takeout beneath The Pic-a-nic Tree.
Old habits. Old friends. Deep roots.
And a whole lot of gratitude for having shared a little piece of this earth with them.
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