October 2009

“I remember that autumn
when the fallen epileptic maple
shuddered in pain
by the road.
My world died then
with the maple’s first convulsion.”

The world-class author of these lines was brilliant, funny Leonardas Andriekus (1914-2004), the former poet laureate of Lithuania known to generations of Kennebunkers as Father Leonard, a man who regularly lit up the Franciscan Monastery with his incandescent personality.

Beautiful as these words are, is he suggesting there’s something duplicitous about a deciduous tree? Sure they have their short-run, off-Broadway show for a few weekends. But what are we supposed to do after all the bright leaves disappear? With winter ahead, how can we recover after these extraordinary “seizures” of color?

The answer, I think, lies in a darker flower still. The more I see the flashes of fall come and go, the more I find myself swept away by a deepening love for the steadfast pine trees that were here long before Hawthorne, after spending part of his childhood along Sebago Lake, first tried to describe what it’s like to draw breath in this part of the woods.

The flaring oranges and reds of foliage trees that are the stuff of Photoshopped calendars achieve their true drama only because of the dark green backdrop behind them. They’re like flashy street buskers performing in front of crowds headed for the real symphony, Maine’s evergreens.

“James Phinney Baxter wrote about a white pine tree in Eastern Cemetery,” says Portland city arborist Jeff Tarling. “I’d seen the poem, but when I went to find the tree, there was just a vacant space and a plaque where the pine tree was. So we planted another one there. It’s about 15 feet tall.” Another lovely Portland pine “was lost during the Patriots Day Storm, right on the Presumpscot shoreline, near Martin’s Point,” Tarling says. “It was really striking, with a windswept look. A commuter from Bailey Island mourned it. He kept calling me about it, actually pining away. We’ve lost our pine tree. He said it was his favorite tree and wanted it recognized.”

I remember my father showing me trees in the Maine woods. Far from stopping at a spangled maple or birch, he took me right up a needle-covered path to a white pine tree, so tall the tip of its enormous green head disappeared in a cloud. I inhaled the fragrance of its rich sap (the first of many rich saps I would meet in my life) and wondered how many rings it had to make it so tall. “From these, the masts of great ships were made,” he told me as the pines whispered in the wind. Then he opened his hand to show five fingers. “Do you see how the clumps of needles come in groups of five? This is a white pine.”

I guess I don’t have to tell you, I’ve visited this very pine tree during moments of joy and even doubt in my life to make sure it’s still there.

One definition of evergreen I love is, “a plant having foliage that persists and remains green throughout the year.” Yeah, that’s Maine. Come on, winter. Bring it. As long as I’ve got these evergreens covering me.

When it’s snowing, when I’m driving along the Maine Turnpike and see these conifers appear out of the fog, out of the rain or snow, I feel their dark green loveliness, their wildness, their strength. If you listen very hard, you can hear their music.