Pine Tree Swan Song
Orange
flags mounted on wood stakes announced that the lot down the street had been
surveyed. Dense with oak trees, palmetto scrub, and ancient pines that towered
like nature’s skyscrapers, I knew the texture of this street would soon
change when the lot was cleared.
Much
of the development where I live has retained a rural sensibility. Undeveloped
lots surround many houses, and depending on where you live, if you look the
right way—away from your neighbors’ houses—you can almost pretend you are in
the woods. Many homesites are so wooded that the owners don’t have to pretend.
I’m fortunate to own a home with those pretend benefits. An undeveloped lot
sits south of my house, as do at least three lots east of it. Pine trees, both
mature and saplings, oak trees, scrub palmettos, and, alas, far too many
Brazilian peppers make up my view.
My
view wouldn’t change when the lot down the street was cleared, but the street
view would—and soon. One morning not long after the stakes appeared, the sound
of bulldozers and bush hogs silenced the birdsong. First, the heavy equipment took
out the oaks, cabbage palms, scrub palmettos, and even the Brazilian peppers. The
heavy machinery rumbled through the lot each day, moving, mowing, crashing the growth
to the ground. Dump trucks lined up, were filled, and drove away containing
once-living greenery.
Too
hardy and far too tall for the first stage of clearing, the ancient pines still
stood in place. However, I knew the day would come when they, too, would meet a
clear-cut fate. These sturdy pines had weathered many a storm and many a
drought. They stayed put in 2004 and 2005, when hurricane after hurricane
slammed the area. Residents were storm weary, but these pines persevered.
Days
later, when heavy equipment roared the morning awake, I knew the pine trees
would be gone by sunset. Even so, I wasn’t prepared for the sounds of the machines’
mighty effort to topple those pines. Cracks, creaks, sighs, and groans sliced
through the air as the pines were pushed and prodded into submission. The pines
resisted at first, their roots continuing to hug deep within the Florida soil
that had sustained them for many decades. Persisting, the machines finally accomplished
their goal. I heard a funeral dirge as the trees toppled with resounding cracks
and crashing thuds as they hit the ground.
I
am almost certain I was the sole onlooker concerned about the trees, even from
a few lots away. I sensed a kinship and felt it only right and honorable that
someone witness their last needles blow in the wind, catch the pungent scent of
pine sap in the air, and hear the massive trunks hit the ground. I even felt
some inner pain as they and I said goodbye.
I
know the lot on which my home sits was once covered with native Florida vegetation,
probably relatives of the same oaks, pines, and palms that died an unsung death
in the lot down the street. I know that progress and preservation fight an ongoing, no-winners battle. We want our houses, our businesses, our stores, our places of
entertainment. Balancing the desires of people and the necessity of nature has
never been easy. I think it’s only fitting, however, that when we remove
habitat to provide ourselves with the trappings of modern life that we take
notice. Our spirits must awake, become aware, and yes, even sing a pine tree
swan song.
