Woodcraft 25: Resurrection

12 11 2014

white ash in yellow

I looked about to try and see what Grandfather had just described.  “You know,” I offered, “it would seem a shame to cut down any of these big, beautiful trees, at any time.  It would bother me a whole lot more than cutting your little purple ash tree did.  Can forests be useful without cutting anything out of them?”

“And what would we do without wood, Konrad? But, yes: forests have much value to the planet on which we live; forests can and do provide many things other than wood for the direct benefit of people.

“Oxygen, of course.

“Cool shade from the hot summer sun.  And not just shade for people outdoors.  Shade for the buildings people inhabit.  Shade for the animals people own.

“Air conditioning.  Part of the cooling effect of trees is in heat they take from sunlight in order to have water evaporated from the leaves, heat that would otherwise go elsewhere.  That evaporation also helps to humidify the air.

“Protection of soil.  Leaves and limbs intercept rainfall, slowing it down so that it has less erosive impact on soil.  Leaves and limbs intercept winds, slowing them down so that they have less erosive impact on soil.  Roots help hold soil in place.

“Noise control.  The volume of sound is reduced six to eight decibels for every 100 feet of travel through a stand of trees.

“But let’s talk about food.  Trees can and do provide plenty of food for people and for the hogs, cattle, goats, turkeys, chickens, and other livestock that people raise for food.  The people of Corsica, for example — Napoleon’s home island — have been maintaining their groves of chestnuts and using the trees’ crops as food for themselves and their livestock for centuries.  Indeed, there are many places on the planet better suited for forest farming than for regular agriculture.  Mainly, these are places too steep to plow and plant without suffering too much erosion.

“In this part of the planet, a number of trees may be planted to provide food for livestock in the winter.  At the same time and in the proper layout, the trees could promote better grazing in the summer by providing shade.  They could promote better grazing, snow permitting, in the winter by providing shelter from frigid winds.

“Pines provide seeds.  Oaks provide acorns.  Almonds, beeches, walnuts, hazelnuts, and sweet chestnuts, even butternuts, provide nuts.  Honey locusts and Siberian peatrees provide pods.  So, too, the northern catalpa.  Hawthorns provide fruit.  All can be ground into animal fodder.  I would imagine most of that, if not all, can be made into meal that people can eat.  And these are crops that don’t require tilling and planting every year.  The trees are perennials.

“We mustn’t forget the hickory.  Shagbark hickory nuts are edible, and they can be boiled and strained to produce a sweet and rich cream.  And we mustn’t forget all the fruit trees such as apples, cherries, plums, pears, and mulberries.  Done properly, wild grapes can be managed in a forest environment.  And we mustn’t forget maple syrup.”

I said, “So it is possible to live in the forest without killing trees.”

Grandfather thought for a while.  “There are those who say that we can live better if we live with living trees.  When I was more your father’s age, a man named J. Russell Smith advocated just that in his book Tree Crops – A Permanent Agriculture.  A man by the name of J. Sholto Douglas is today researching such a precept.  I am myself now too old to pursue it.  But maybe you will care to do so.”

Now there was a novel answer to the question, “What do you want to do when you grow up?”

“I’m afraid, though,” Grandfather continued, “that you will see many more dead trees in your time.”

“But I thought you said trees can live forever.”

“I said that trees may live indefinitely, so long as something or someone doesn’t kill them.  And trees have many enemies: bacteria, fungi, insects, birds, mammals, and people.  As it is written, ‘For we know that the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now’.”

I nodded.  Then I asked, “But should the people of God add to that groaning and travail?”

“By killing trees?” Grandfather asked.

I nodded again.

“A good question, Konrad.  I ask you to keep thinking about that as you grow, I pray, in wisdom and stature, and in favor with God and man.  But let me add something for you to think about.  The ark of Noah was made of wood.  And so, too, the Ark of the Covenant.  And  God gave the instructions for the construction of both.”

“Hmmm…”

“Yet it is good for you to think of what you can do to help implement the redemption of God. As it is written, ‘I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us’.”

I looked away from him and into the trees, wondering.

Grandfather said, “Come, Konrad.  Let me show you something that may help you.”

We walked another distance and came to a small meadow.  Grandfather led me from the edge of the forest to a seedling growing in the grass.  “Does this look familiar?”

I studied the little tree.  All I had to go on were the leaves if I had any hope of identifying it, considering the low level of my skills at that time in my life.  I studied the leaves, and they did look familiar.  “This is an ash tree?”

Grandfather nodded.

“A purple ash?”

“No.  At least, not quite.  This is a white ash.”

“Oh.” I didn’t know what to make of it.  I waited for more.

“Do you remember that I said the purple ash is a variety of white ash?  Both are the same species of tree: Fraxinus americana.  The purple ash is a special version of the white ash.”

“I remember.”

“Turn around.”

Grandfather reached into the rucksack to remove the canning jar.  “Now watch, Konrad.” He removed the jar from the paper sack.  Then he removed the lid, reached inside the jar, and removed a simple twig with a number of stems sticking out of it.  He studied it carefully, and then held it out for me to see more closely.

I looked at it, then at him.

“This is purple ash,” he announced.

“It is?”

“Yes.  I removed it and the other twigs in the jar from the tree in the yard shortly after I saw what you had done.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“No.  I did it after I sent you and Joanna away to play.”

“Oh.”

“This is called a bud stick.  It’s just a small branch taken from the tree, but notice that it has several buds. I selected this stick and the others in the jar from the parts of the tree that exhibited the best growth this season.  The buds are plump, fully formed, mature, and dormant.  The tree makes these buds in advance for next year’s growth.  However, we are going to put them to use yet this year.”

“We are?”

Grandfather eased down so he could sit near the white ash seedling.  He motioned for me to sit with him.  He held the bud stick out again for me to see.  “As I said, I cut this from this year’s most vigorous growth.  I took it and the others into the garage right away and sealed the ends of each stick with a little wax.  Then I put them into the jar with just a little water, took it into the kitchen, and put it into the refrigerator.  The purpose was to keep the sticks from drying out.  We want the cambium inside to survive, to keep living, even if in suspended animation, so to speak.”

He removed a knife from his vest.  He opened it, saying, “Now this is extremely sharp, so be careful here.”

He held the knife to the stick.  “I have selected one bud.  I am cutting about a half inch or so below the bud and into the stick.  I draw the blade up so as to cut a sliver of wood, going a half inch or so above the bud.  What I have removed from the stick is what we call a bud shield.”

He removed a small folding magnifying glass from his vest.  He opened it and used it to examine the bud shield.  “I am checking to see if this has gotten too dry, despite my efforts.  It looks pretty fair.”

He held the bud shield out toward me.  “Hold onto this for a moment.  Take it by the petiole.”

“The what?”

“When I cut the stick from the tree, I also cut off the leaves.  But I left some of the leaves’ stems.  Leaf stems are called petioles.  Leaving a bit of the leaf stem on the bud shield makes for a handy handle.”

I took the bud shield.

“Now we have to work fast.  We can’t let that get too dry.  Some old-timers put the bud shield in the mouth to keep it moist, but I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Grandfather held the knife to the white ash seedling.  “This little tree is about three years old.  I am cutting a slit into the bark, straight up and down.  And now I cut a cross slit at the top of the first to make a T.  We’re doing so at this time of the summer because the cambium inside is active and the bark can be peeled easily without causing damage.”

He looked at me and held out his hand.  I gave him the bud shield.

“I insert the bud shield into the T-slit … like this … and insure a snug fit. The idea is to have the cambium of the scion interface with the cambium of the stock.”

“Scion?”

“Scion.  That refers to the plant we’re trying to propagate, to reproduce.  In this case, it’s the purple ash.  Stock refers to the rootstock, the plant that receives the graft from the scion.”  Grandfather reached into his vest to remove a roll of something.

“What’s that?”

“Budding rubber.  I take a length and wrap it around the graft to bandage it together.  If everything goes well, the tree heals the wound.  After the wound is well again, the budding rubber deteriorates in the weather and disappears so that the wrap will not later girdle the tree.  You know what girdling does.”

Yes.  I learned it the hard way.

“And there we have it,” Grandfather announced.

I looked at the ash seedling.  “You mean, that little bud will now grow?”

“Not quite yet.  The wound needs to heal.  The cambium from the purple ash needs to merge with the cambium of the white ash.  This late in the season, the bud needs to remain dormant. Next spring?  Ah, then I trust the bud will grow and put out new leaves and new flowers and new wood and new seeds.”

“Really?”

“I have faith.”

“The purple ash is not dead?”

“It may yet be resurrected.  Are you yet a praying man?”

“Yes.”

“Then pray again.  It shall be resurrected.”

“You know that?”

“As I said, I have faith.  Do you?”

“Yes.”

We both looked at the little tree.

“Wow!” I said in anticipation.

“Does this remind you of anything?”

“No,” I answered.  “I’ve never seen this kind of thing before.  I don’t know if I’ve even heard of it.”

“I understand,” said Grandfather.  “But have you memorized anything from the Gospel of John, the 15th chapter?”

“Yes.”  I had to think a while.  Then I recited, “I am the vine, ye are the branches: he that abideth in me, and I in him, the same bringeth forth much fruit: for without me ye can do nothing.”

“Exactly,” Grandfather said.  “The tree that you trimmed, after you were finished, it was done for, as good as dead.  You saw that.”

“Yes,” I said.  “And I’m sorry, now more than ever, now that I’ve seen in this forest what trees can be.  I don’t want to do any such a thing as that again.”

“I understand,” said Grandfather.

“So you will forgive me?”

He put a hand to my shoulder.  “Yes, Konrad.  I will, and I already have.”

I smiled.

Grandfather continued, “That tree was as good as dead, which is quite bad, actually.  And yet, it can have new life.  Do you know the first verse of John 15?”

I hesitated.

Grandfather began, “ ‘I am the true vine, and…’?”

“ ‘My Father is the husbandman’,” I concluded.

“And that is what He does for us.  He takes us when we are as good as dead because of the trespasses and sins that girdle us, and he grafts us into the White Life of His Son.  By way of analogy, He grafts all of us — purple, green, blue, black, whatever — He grafts us into the White.”

Grandfather asked, “Have you seen Jesus?”

It was the same question my father had asked me the summer before.  I gave the same answer: “No.”

“And do you know why?” Grandfather asked.

“I have wondered why,” I said.  “Many times.  Just yesterday, in fact, when I was praying so hard for your tree.  I wished I could see Jesus and just talk to Him straight and hear Him straight.  I wished I could take Him by the hand and see Him hand me a straight answer.”

Grandfather said, “We have implanted the purple ash scion into this white ash stock.  If this is to grow into a magnificent purple ash tree, there is something we must yet do.”

“What’s that?”

“Sometime this winter, when it’s cold and dark, when everything seems dead, we must come to this tree and cut off the upper portion.”

“Why?”

“So that the purple portion will, come spring, sprout and grow and become a new purple ash tree.  So that it will be a white purple ash.”

I looked at the tree.

“ ‘Let this mind be in you, which was also in Christ Jesus’,” Grandfather began reciting, “who, being in the form of God …  took upon Him the form of a servant, and was made in the likeness of men: and being found in fashion as a man, He humbled Himself, and became obedient unto death, even the death of a cross’.”

“Which was also made from a tree,” I said.

“Quite right.  As both the prophets Isaiah and Daniel said, He was cut off.”

“And He came back again.”

“He came back again.  He came back to life on that special spring morning, bringing an end to our winter.  As it is written, ‘But God, who is rich in mercy, for His great love wherewith He loved us, even when we were dead in sins, hath quickened us together with Christ … and hath raised us up together, and made us sit together in heavenly places in Christ Jesus…’ ”

Grandfather pointed to the scion of purple ash.  “And as it is also written, ‘For ye are dead, and your life is hid with Christ in God…  Put on the new man, which is renewed in knowledge after the image of Him that created him’.”

Grandfather then pointed at another tree, a large one standing on the other side of the meadow, a magnificent and majestic ash shining in the sun.  He asked me, “Konrad, do you want to be like that tree?”

“Yes.”

Grandfather nodded.  “Good.  ‘When Christ, who is our life, shall appear, then shall ye also appear with Him in glory’.”

Since that sunny summer afternoon, I have many times just stood — or sat, to be honest — in those woods as though I were a tree, sometimes for an entire day, and sometimes for an entire night.  I sat under that magnificent and majestic ash, watching that little ash grow and also become big and tall and strong and magnificent.

I watched the other little ashes grow, as well.  That afternoon, Grandfather had taken me to one seedling after another.  At each, I myself implanted the remaining purple ash bud shields.  We returned in the winter to prune the trees.  We returned in the spring to see each one blossom.  And we returned in the autumn to see a color not to be seen anywhere else in our forest.

That color has returned every autumn.  It started then in the spring of my life, and it continues now that I am in my own autumn.  I look at that color — borrowed fire, gathering strength from the sun, as Thoreau has said — and I look forward to the coming glory of that most green, evergreen spring.

It is written, “When that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away.  When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things. For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to Face…”.

 woodcraft 6

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The Caged Skylark

21 07 2014
As a dare-gale skylark scanted in a dull cage,
    Man’s mounting spirit in his bone-house, mean house, dwells —
    That bird beyond the remembering his free fells;
This in drudgery, day-labouring-out life’s age.
Though aloft on turf or perch or poor low stage
    Both sing sometímes the sweetest, sweetest spells,
    Yet both droop deadly sómetimes in their cells
Or wring their barriers in bursts of fear or rage.
Not that the sweet-fowl, song-fowl, needs no rest —
Why, hear him, hear him babble & drop down to his nest,
    But his own nest, wild nest, no prison.
Man’s spirit will be flesh-bound, when found at best,
But uncumberèd: meadow-down is not distressed
    For a rainbow footing it nor he for his bones risen.
Gerard Manley Hopkins
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Arise, Arise

19 05 2014
At the round earth’s imagin’d corners, blow
Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise
From death, you numberless infinities
Of souls, and to your scatter’d bodies go;
All whom the flood did, and fire shall o’erthrow,
All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies,
Despair, law, chance hath slain, and you whose eyes
Shall behold God and never taste death’s woe.
But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space,
For if above all these my sins abound,
‘Tis late to ask abundance of thy grace
When we are there; here on this lowly ground
Teach me how to repent; for that’s as good
As if thou’hadst seal’d my pardon with thy blood.
John Donne
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1 Corinthians 15:50-58

Lexham English Bible (LEB)

50 But I say this, brothers, that flesh and blood is not able to inherit the kingdom of God, nor can corruption inherit incorruptibility. 51 Behold, I tell you a mystery: we will not all fall asleep, but we will all be changed, 52 in a moment, in the blink of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will be changed.53 For it is necessary for this perishable body to put on incorruptibility, and this mortal body to put on immortality. 54 But whenever this perishable body puts on incorruptibility and this mortal body puts on immortality, then the saying that is written will take place:

“Death is swallowed up in victory.
55 Where, O death, is your victory?
Where, O death, is your sting?

56 Now the sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. 57 But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ! 58 So then, my dear brothers, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, because youknow that your labor is not in vain in the Lord.





April Prayer

5 04 2014

  ’T is the noon of the spring-time, yet never a bird
In the wind-shaken elm or the maple is heard;
For green meadow-grasses wide levels of snow,
And blowing of drifts where the crocus should blow;
Where wind-flower and violet, amber and white,
On south-sloping brooksides should smile in the light,
O’er the cold winter-beds of their late-waking roots
The frosty flake eddies, the ice-crystal shoots;
And, longing for light, under wind-driven heaps,
Round the boles of the pine-wood the ground-laurel creeps,
Unkissed of the sunshine, unbaptized of showers,
With buds scarcely swelled, which should burst into flowers
We wait for thy coming, sweet wind of the south!
For the touch of thy light wings, the kiss of thy mouth;
For the yearly evangel thou bearest from God,
Resurrection and life to the graves of the sod!
Up our long river-valley, for days, have not ceased
The wail and the shriek of the bitter northeast,
Raw and chill, as if winnowed through ices and snow,
All the way from the land of the wild Esquimau,
Until all our dreams of the land of the blest,
Like that red hunter’s, turn to the sunny southwest.
O soul of the spring-time, its light and its breath,
Bring warmth to this coldness, bring life to this death;
Renew the great miracle; let us behold
The stone from the mouth of the sepulchre rolled,
And Nature, like Lazarus, rise, as of old!
Let our faith, which in darkness and coldness has lain,
Revive with the warmth and the brightness again,
And in blooming of flower and budding of tree
The symbols and types of our destiny see;
The life of the spring-time, the life of the whole,
And, as sun to the sleeping earth, love to the soul.

John Greenleaf Whittier

field and forest 2





This Advent Moon

15 12 2013

This Advent moon shines cold and clear,
These Advent nights are long;
Our lamps have burned year after year
And still their flame is strong.
‘Watchman, what of the night?’ we cry,
Heart-sick with hope deferred:
‘No speaking signs are in the sky,’
Is still the watchman’s word.

The Porter watches at the gate,
The servants watch within;
The watch is long betimes and late,
The prize is slow to win.
‘Watchman, what of the night?’ But still
His answer sounds the same:
‘No daybreak tops the utmost hill,
Nor pale our lamps of flame.’

One to another hear them speak
The patient virgins wise:
‘Surely He is not far to seek’ –
‘All night we watch and rise.’
‘The days are evil looking back,
The coming days are dim;
Yet count we not His promise slack,
But watch and wait for Him.’

One with another, soul with soul,
They kindle fire from fire:
‘Friends watch us who have touched the goal.’
‘They urge us, come up higher.’
‘With them shall rest our waysore feet,
With them is built our home,
With Christ.’ – ‘They sweet, but He most sweet,
Sweeter than honeycomb.’

There no more parting, no more pain,
The distant ones brought near,
The lost so long are found again,
Long lost but longer dear:
Eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard,
Nor heart conceived that rest,
With them our good things long deferred,
With Jesus Christ our Best.

We weep because the night is long,
We laugh for day shall rise,
We sing a slow contented song
And knock at Paradise.
Weeping we hold Him fast, Who wept
For us, we hold Him fast;
And will not let Him go except
He bless us first or last.

Weeping we hold Him fast to-night;
We will not let Him go
Till daybreak smite our wearied sight
And summer smite the snow:
Then figs shall bud, and dove with dove
Shall coo the livelong day;
Then He shall say, ‘Arise, My love,
My fair one, come away.’

Christina G. Rossetti

winter moon





The Path of Life

16 11 2013

When in the night I meditate
On mercies multiplied,
My grateful heart inspires my tongue
To bless the Lord, my Guide.

Forever in my thought the Lord
Before my face shall stand;
Secure, unmoved, I shall remain,
With Him at my right hand.

My inmost being thrills with joy
And gladness fills my breast;
Because on Him my trust is stayed,
My flesh in hope shall rest.

I know that I shall not be left
Forgotten in the grave,
And from corruption, Thou, O Lord,
Thy holy one wilt save.

The path of life Thou showest me;
Of joy a boundless store
Is ever found at Thy right hand,
And pleasures evermore.

Psalm 16 (as adapted for the 1912 Psalter of the Presbyterian and Reformed Churches of America)

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All Saints

1 11 2013

They are flocking from the East
And the West,
They are flocking from the North
And the South,
Every moment setting forth
From realm of snake or lion,
Swamp or sand,
Ice or burning;
Greatest and least,
Palm in hand
And praise in mouth,
They are flocking up the path
To their rest,
Up the path that hath
No returning.

Up the steeps of Zion
They are mounting,
Coming, coming,
Throngs beyond man’s counting;
With a sound
Like innumerable bees
Swarming, humming
Where flowering trees
Many-tinted,
Many-scented,
All alike abound
With honey, –
With a swell
Like a blast upswaying unrestrainable
From a shadowed dell
To the hill-tops sunny, –
With a thunder
Like the ocean when in strength
Breadth and length
It sets to shore;
More and more
Waves on waves redoubled pour
Leaping flashing to the shore
(Unlike the under
Drain of ebb that loseth ground
For all its roar.)

They are thronging
From the East and West,
From the North and South,
Saints are thronging, loving, longing,
To their land
Of rest,
Palm in hand
And praise in mouth.

Christina G. Rossetti

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