A Tribute to a Tree - Part 2

First Post of the Day

My children love Morainewood, my childhood home on the Wabash. They have so many memories wrapped up there, visiting Apple Jack and Granny Slash, the big swing tucked back in the woods that Apple Jack hung from an ancient tree, sledding down the moraine, poking around on the shores of the Wabash, and more.

So, it's not really a surprise that Lisa drops by the property every now and then. She likes to walk around and spend some quiet time with her memories.

The witness tree, that venerable old oak, came crashing down during some high winds earlier this summer and Lisa took some photos for me when she last visited.

It smashed into the trees ringing the clearing 

and did a lot of damage to them.

The damage from the fungus was evident at its roots - see that hole where the fungus has been eating inside the tree?

The root system that came out of the ground was taller than Lisa (she's 5'8".) Massive roots for a massive and very old tree.

A second tree nearby also sustained damage from those winds.

Part of its top split off and toppled down next to the old oak.

When we lived in the house, it was a constant worry that "some day" the oak would come down and maybe even hit the house. It did once lose a large branch that came through the roof over the living room, but that was the only incident in the 50 years that Morainewood was our family home.

There is no longer a home for the tree to land on

and the giant oak is now resting on the ground. 

Since the land is being returned to nature, I hope the tree is left where it is lying so it can complete its life cycle in the way in which nature intends it to do.

Stay 'tooned.

A Tribute to a Tree - Part One

When we moved into our home on the Wabash in 1970, my Grandpa Honeywell, a Horticulturist at Purdue, told us that the oak tree at the base of the home was around 250 - 300 years old. 

It was a true witness tree - old enough to have seen William Henry Harrison coming up the Wabash for the Battle of Tippecanoe and who knows how many other historic events.

The tree "witnessing" Thanksgiving, 1970 as I showed my Honeywell grandparents my horse Amy.

When the house was built in the 1960s, the tree was saved and it stood sentinel at the top of the driveway where the basement garage opened out.

By 2012 its massive trunk was covered with vines. Worse, it had a parasitic fungus that showed up that August. I can't remember the name of it, but I did some research and learned that it was eating the tree from the inside out, a sign that the tree was in its end stage of life.

Every August I began checking the tree, and sure enough, the fungus would manifest itself, and then wither and decay only to reappear again the following August. This photo was taken in 2014 with the Coke can for perspective.

August after August, that proof of the oak tree's inner battle and harbinger of the tree's demise would pop up for a week or so, then decay and disappear.

The oak in 2017.

Earlier this spring, my old home was razed and the grounds are now in a restoration phase of returning to nature.

It was a relief and a surprise to see that the tree had not been removed or damaged by the demolition.

It hurt to see the home gone, but that tree still stood, continuing to witness the history around it. For me, it was the last remnant of my home and I found it comforting that the oak remained.

Inside the tree, though, its own life's clock was ticking and drawing to a close.

Stay 'tooned.

Oh, Morainewood!

In December, my childhood home was razed. It was completely eradicated. 

In a year or so, all traces will be totally gone as the woods reclaim its grounds.

It is shocking to look at but still I am grateful to Lisa who went out and took some photos for me.

The ancient black walnut tree remains. It stood at the base of the home, guarding the basement garage. It is at least 250 years old now and I am glad it survived the demolition.

We parked my horse trailer under it - my dad took this old picture of me one summer evening as I was cleaning out the trailer's interior.

The concrete stairs down to the paddock in the ravine were left, a vestige of my earliest days as a horse owner.

You can see the handrail and some steps on the far left in this old photo of Amy, Flame, Nick, and Pokey waiting for me to walk down to them, bringing their breakfast.

The moss covered retaining wall next to the barn also survived. A large pile of big rocks has been dumped next to it so clearly something is planned for that area.

Surprising, the old mailbox was left, although for some reason, it was moved to the other side of the driveway and next to Gossip Corner.

Gossip Corner was a spot in the paddock where our horses would stand and call back and forth with the horses down the road. My dad dubbed it that as a joke and it stuck. The corner post of the fence remains, too. 

This spot was also where I would stand and wait for the school bus in the early morning. And when I think of how many early model horse journals, magazines, and correspondence (complete with SASEs!) were delivered to that very box... 

So much history at this spot that we called home. Family. Horses. Dogs and cats. Model horses. School and life changes.

This song expresses some of how I am feeling.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eSelQyMvMyE

My home may be gone, but the memories Morainewood will always remain.

Goodbye, Morainewood

My childhood home is gone.

Named Morainewood on the Wabash by the couple who built it, we moved into it in January, 1970. 

One of the reasons my parents bought it was so that I could have a horse.

It sat halfway up a moraine and on the Wabash River. We owned the land on both sides of the highway.

It was beautiful in all four seasons.

And I did get my first horse, Amy, shortly after we moved in. 

And Cee,

Nick, Flame, and Pokey. (That's a hay wagon I am sitting in, not one for manure!)

It was a wonderful way to grow up.

Out in the country surrounded by woods on one side and the Wabash River on the other. Lucky, lucky, lucky.

My dad loved it so much, he said he'd die there. He didn't but he never knew that; Alzheimer's Disease had made it so that he never realized when we finally moved him into a care facility.

My mother remained in the home until 2015 when she could no longer safely live there alone. We sold the home to Wabash River Enhancement at my mother's request. (A group that works with Lafayette and West Lafayette to preserve the Wabash River corridor.)

The house sat vacant for over ten years.

In less than two years, the woods was reclaiming their domain.

It was hard to see that happen, but that was part of the plan - for the woods and riverfront to be preserved.

So it was not really a surprise when I learned this week that the house and barn had been torn down. But it was still a heavy, painful blow.  

And while I had expected that to happen, after over a decade's passing I had let that thought go. As long as the house was still there, it was still home, decrepit though it had become. 

The house and barn are now gone, and with them went some incredibly important memories. The last visual reminder of my parents, of growing up with my siblings, of my first horse and the others that followed her. Of bringing my kids there to visit Apple Jack and Granny Slash. So much happiness, so many memories.

Morainewood is now just a memory. But as e.e. cummings' poem alludes, I carry it in my heart. 

And I always will.

The Family Bell

There has been a little more weight in the trunk of my car for a couple of months now. It's so heavy, I didn't even remove it when I packed for The Feast of the Hunters' Moon or the Great Lakes Congress show.

It's the bell that hung outside the back door of Morainewood, our home on the Wabash River.

I have no idea how old it is - it was there when we bought the home in 1970.

Thanksgiving 1970. Leslie on Pokey with (left) our great Aunt Clara, Great Uncle Howard, and (right) our mom and Grandma Martin. (Owner of O'Boy, the circus pony.) Check out my mom's hands - she's got a couple of apples for Amy and Pokey!

My siblings and I used to roam all over the place - down along the river, up in the woods, and go way back through the ravines and creeks of the moraine we lived on.

When she wanted us to come home, Mom would ring that bell and the sound would travel long distances - no matter how far we wandered, on horseback or on foot, we could always hear it. (Look between the two trees in the middle and you will see the bell.)

I can still hear its beautiful sound calling me home. So when Leslie found it tucked away in her barn and asked if I wanted it, of course I said I did. I'm not sure what I will do with it, but in the meantime, a very important piece of my childhood resides in the trunk of my car.

And I am happy that it is there. In a way, it still calls me home.