In a previous blog (Invasive vs. Aggressive, dated October 4^th, 2023), I spoke agreeably but briefly about English ivy (Hedera helix) trained up a tree and referenced a possible upcoming blog more about that. Alas, once posted, I tend to forget what I have written, moving on mentally to what might be next. A recent perusal of past blogs reminded me of that commitment made nearly 2 years ago. Ergo, here goes….

Among the few large trees I inherited (I “inherited” little else that today adorns the garden) when purchasing the two properties that became Uptop, four large Norway maples (Acer platanoides) provided needed shade. Reviled in all texts and by most knowledgeable gardeners as “junk trees” that are highly invasive, I had no intention of removing any of the four,  though I knew even then in my “gardener-in-training” days if had a clean slate, I would have planted a sugar maple (Acer saccharum) and a red maple (Acer rubrum) along with a scarlet oak or two (Quercus coccinea).I had become acquainted with the scarlet oak in my early days as the first chair of the Horticulture Committee of the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. The need to replace the double row of 80-year old Norway maples nearing the end of their lives had become an urgent issue. Still a neophyte, I listened carefully to the BBG experts as they discussed options, finally deciding on scarlet oaks. They were planted several months after 9/11/2001 and are now called the Liberty Oaks, named in remembrance of the lives lost on that day. Today, nearing their quarter century mark, they are majestic trees, beautifully complementing their alle mates, the Kanzan cherry (Prunus ‘Kazsan’).

The first Norway at Uptop to make an exit was the one near the road, by the driveway. It’s old age contributed to its demise in a storm that toppled much of it, bringing down with it a Baltimore Oriole nest that once was the scene of a mass murder, witnessed live by me and horrified neighbors as viscious crows attacked the nest to devour the contents – mere hatchlings – a few of whom floated down to the street only to be taken by a waiting cat. The memory of this ghastly scene returned as I had the rest of the tree cut down. 

The second to go was one of the younger “twins,” from whose trunks sprouted S-hooks holding up a hammock. My young grandson Jackson loved running through this part of the garden – he called it The Jungle – to jump into the hammock for endless swinging sessions powered by his Pa (this writer himself). Even with this happy history, at some point many years ago, I realized the garden was indeed becoming a jungle of shade…and dampness. I had never had a tree removed for aesthetic reasons and felt guilty as I asked Paul Backstone, my helper for the “big things” in the maintenance of the garden, to remove it over the winter when I would not be witness. Deed done by spring, I missed it not at all (except never found another place for the hammock, so it was taken for August naps in Michigan). Not willing to pay to stump grind, I made a little 18” mound from the compost pile and encouraged yellowroot (Xanthorhiza simplicissima) to cover it. 

Even though every tree in the garden has a story of itself to tell, somewhat shockingly, I have come to not miss a tree – even a large one – after it is gone. Am I rationalizing my complicity in the death or simply understanding that as the garden matures, new needs arise? Most gardens become shadier over time, almost without notice, and can benefit from more sun. In this situation, I appreciate my now-sunny Roundel (apologies to Vita and Harold for swiping the name they gave to their circular garden at Sissinghurst) that ultimately allowed the creation of a minute sunny meadow at its center.

So, now to the fourth Norway maple – and by far, the oldest and largest. It sits in a prime spot adjacent the front terrace of Big House. Either by design or inadvertent carelessness by its previous owner, the massive maple by the time of my purchase was already adorned with mature English ivy sprawling up its giant 7-ft diameter trunk and well into its arching branches, bringing me much delight, especially in winter when this deciduous giant exhibited a silhouette against the bleak sky that was…green! In a cover-story article about Uptop by Tovah Martin in Connecticut Cottages and Gardens magazine, a close-up photo of the 6-inch diameter woody roots was the cover photograph. Noticing every year another limb losing its leaves, I finally realized this formerly majestic tree was slowing dying of old age. How long would it take? How many more downbursts, twisters, or hurricanes would it take to send this sentinel into my nearby glass conservatory and my own bedroom right behind? Not many, I figured. Its root system either lay mostly on top of a large rock ledge (and therefore, very susceptible to easy toppling) or might they have tucked themselves below the rock somehow in its youth (and therefore, abnormally well-rooted and resistant to toppling in a blow). Not wanting to wait to find out – but bereft about losing such a feature in the garden, I developed a compromise that still thrills me: I had the tree cut down except for the bottom 15-ft., leaving the mature English ivy to fend for itself against the aggressive climbing hydrangea that I planted to join the ivy. At some point (but how long?) before the whole affair would collapse, the remnants of the Norway maple finally rotting through, I did not know but believe I will outlive this event. In any event, this massive “shrub” (for this is its resemblance now), especially in June when the hydrangea sports hundreds of large white blossoms the size dinner plates, is a garden knock-out and always elicits curiousity from garden visitors. So, did this old tree die hard? Or do its cells still have life (I think they might, as I see a sprout every now and then peeking out from the lush ivy and hydrangea. Even if the old tree really is dead (for surely if not yet, it will die over time), as it is adorned with such flourishing new life, can it really have died? My guess is that it might be proud of its abundant new life, covering its old bones with such a ravishing new cloak.