A sweetgum fell across the fence in the woodlot — the one section, near the ravine, that’s made of hog wire. The falling tree would have taken the fence to the ground, but the trunk got stuck in the fork of a living tree, which a fence builder had used as a fencepost.
The crown of a sweetgum makes a remarkable mess. The limbs shatter easily.
But I’ve been filling the ravine with brush. For those seeking to restore eroded land, a fallen sweetgum is a gift.
I put on coveralls, laced up my boots, got an insulated bottle of coffee and spent the morning with a chainsaw. In addition to the erosion control, I have firewood.
A good friend said this catastrophe of everyday life invigorated me, and I suppose it did. I’ve been trying to figure out why.
Before I was old enough to understand the idea of a generational divide, I was raised among men divided by generation. My grandfathers worked with horses, mules and tractors, but mainly with their hands. Their sons went to school and learned to work with their heads.
It was presented to me just like that: head or hands. But I never got the either-or.
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