Arboricide in the Suburbs
In the 1990s, a story I wrote about a dying tree set me on my career path. Now, the story of another tree is helping me heal from the loss of my teenage son.
In my early twenties, I thought I was living the dream. I had a job at the Philadelphia Inquirer. Although moving back into my childhood bedroom wasn't exactly part of that picture, it was a reasonable compromise to save up money.
I had a specific goal: my byline on the front page of the Pulitzer Prize-winning newspaper I had grown up reading. There were no guarantees. I was hired as a second-tier employee, one among dozens of young, ambitious journalists willing to do the paper's scrub work — covering small town events, attending not-terribly-eventful public meetings — for a lower wage than that what the older experienced writers made. If important news emerged from our toil, more times than not it was passed on to the more seasoned staff. That was a trade-off for experience.
When my big break came, it was tied to an environmental disaster, but it could also be seen as a "human interest" story.
Being an Inquirer correspondent carried clout. The mid-1990s — pre-internet — were probably the last time society seemed to somewhat agree on a set of common facts. Although I didn't recognize it at the time, these were seeds of change, marking the beginning of the end of the good old days of the newspaper biz.
The Plight of the Giant Oak Tree
When my big break came, it was tied to an environmental disaster, but it could also be seen as a "human interest" story. In Washington Township, a growing suburb south of Philly named for the father of our country, a giant oak tree that had taken root in Revolutionary times stood in the way of a Walmart development.
A long-running dispute between environmentalists and developers had centered on saving the tree. When a court ruling finally arrived, blocking the development altogether, tree huggers rejoiced!
But the court ruling was only as weighty as the legal paper used to file the verdict. Once the environmentalists left South Jersey for their next mission, someone stripped bark off the circumference of the massive tree, effectively sentencing it to a slow death.
When I got the news tip about this development in the ongoing saga, I didn't understand exactly what it meant. I quickly learned it's called girdling, essentially starving the tree of its nutrients. It was a murder mystery: the perfect crime.
There was a motive: sour grapes over the loss of a massive money-making opportunity. But there were no witnesses to peg the act on any one person. I knew if I wrote this well, it would be the story to land my byline on the front page. It was a misfortune of course. But by then I considered it my job to inform readers of the good, the bad and all the news fit to print. Besides, I loved a story that exposed injustice. I was fighting the good fight.
I remember driving the 40 minutes or so from the office to the location of the field – all nervous energy, revved up on an adventure in my Subaru Justy, with the Talking Heads song "(Nothing but) Flowers" playing in my mind.
I hadn't grown up in an outdoorsy family but had recently discovered my love of nature. Hiking outings with my Inquirer friends became a regular weekend activity. It was social, it was exercise, and it provided a sense of safety and peace in natural surroundings I had never experienced before. After our hikes, we always visited an iconic diner near the trail.
The Tree's Slow Death
Still, I was anxious. What if I couldn't find the tree? This was before the days of GPS. What if it wasn't girdled and this was just another false lead? But I found the field. The tree was hard to miss, standing out for its massive girth and expansive branches covered with healthy greenery. On closer inspection, there was indeed a ring around the circumference that would lead to its slow death.
But I can't say I felt those wounds internally — maybe just a stab of sadness. This was before I learned how to feel.
It looked so healthy and regal. It seemed impossible that this tree was anything but alive. Its root system supported all other growth in this targeted field. She was the matriarch, with the collective wisdom and photosynthesis equivalent of breast milk, nurturing younger, more vulnerable trees. I felt a surge of anger and outrage that greed had won the day. But I can't say I felt those wounds internally — maybe just a stab of sadness. This was before I learned how to feel.
I returned to the office, confirmed the reports, made some calls for quotes, and wrote up a blockbuster story that made it to the front page of the paper the next morning. This was my moment. I was 23.
How much longer did the tree live? Was it removed by a landscape company or allowed the dignity of a natural death? I wouldn't know. I never visited the field again, moving on in my career within the year to resettle in New York.
The Cycles of Life and Death
I've been thinking about the arboricide article that helped launch my career a lot in recent months, ever since my son Lee and I noticed a tree with similar carvings in its bark in the woods behind our home. Since the death of my oldest son, Ravi, Lee's older brother, we've both turned to nature to find healing. It's been three years since the car crash that took Ravi's life at 17.
Since the death of my oldest son, Ravi, Lee's older brother, we've both turned to nature to find healing.
For me, paying attention to the cycles of growth, death and rebirth is a vulnerable path that helps me feel his life force is still within us. Lee, now 19, has also grown by exploring his connection to God and Ravi, finding his way from darkness to light in nature. This connection is a large reason he chose to major in environmental studies in college. (Lee's healing in nature involves his gift as an artist; his culminating project for high school AP Fine Arts was a study in grief and landscape, which earned him a fine arts scholarship.)
This time around, the murder victim is also a large oak on the edge of the woods, one providing shade to a nearby house. During his winter break from college, Lee was taking a walk and noticed the property owners had cleared some of the wild growth to use as their yard. Upset, he asked me to accompany him to check it out.
At first, this too felt like an adventure. We trekked through bramble as the winter sun descended on a mission together. But once we reached our destination, the joy of the moment gave way to sorrow. Lee hadn't noticed the stripped tree during his first trip out, but I saw it immediately and felt a stabbing pain. Once I pointed it out, my son understood. It wasn't the only tree either; the carvings marked several others around it. I could see the information sinking in, filling Lee with anger, sadness and bewilderment.
We allowed ourselves to feel the grief. It was a severing of the root system that connected not only the trees to the earth but also to us. It felt like an attack on our own property – land we own but that is not truly ours. It was also an attack on humanity. Lee wanted to save these trees, but it was too late.
Still, we had to do something, so we took photos and sent them to town government officials, hoping at least to stop further desecration of the woods. Officials responded and we know that some action was taken. Maybe the owners were fined, hopefully they will be responsible for planting new growth. But nothing will bring back that noble tree.
Now that it's summer, the murder is even more stark. Amidst the surrounding greenery, one of the largest trees on the edge of the woods stands as a skeletal remnant. A passerby might not notice, but to us, the death is glaringly obvious.
My son will soon return to campus, continuing to study how to slow down climate change, save trees, go where his passions take him.
This time around I'm not moving on. Every time I walk past the tree I will be anticipating its demise. It is still standing, but only for the moment.