There’s a special place in our hearts for our childhood homes. But when we have to say goodbye…whether its due to a move or urban sprawl…what moments do we soak up one last time? In an essay for “Wisconsin Life,” writer and forester Ron Weber returned to his family home and tells us what he cherishes the most.
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The 320-mile trip from my home in Weyerhaeuser to my boyhood home in Kenosha County had offered me plenty of time to think. Normally visits home revolved around family and friends. My thoughts now, though, concerned a very special place.
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For the first time in my life, our home in Kenosha was no longer ours. Glaciation had finally claimed it. Though some may argue whether it is humans causing the climate change that is responsible for the worldwide retreat of glaciers, there is no debate on the root cause of the formation of this glacier.
I have personally watched it growing my whole life. Instead of snow and ice, this glacier is composed of drywall and chipboard, concrete and blacktop. Impervious to climate, it grows insidiously outward, never retreating. Now, it had touched us.
In order to connect growing parts of the county with the city proper, the quiet county road where I learned to ride my bike was to be transfigured into a new four-lane highway complete with median. Engineers determined our home and 1 acre of our 5-acre woodlot stood in the path of least resistance.
Though the rest of my family laments the loss of the house, it is the 1 acre of yard and woods that saddens me most.I grew up with the trees there — and in a very real way, they are as much a part of my life as my family.
My deep feelings toward the outdoors had its genesis on this 5-acre woodlot. Later, I would go on to the University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point to learn the science and art of forestry. But it was here that I grew to love trees and the landscapes on which they lived.
Turning off the now bustling county road into the driveway, I was greeted by familiar faces. There was the twisted, gnarly boxelder and the tall, stately white spruce. They were all special. But as with people, I had my favorites.
A large pear tree, misshapen from several traumas throughout its life was the first I visited. It was a prolific producer, and I can still remember how much I enjoyed the green, unripe pears. I climbed it often, and one day I carved “LD” in honor of Laura Dempsey — in my eyes the prettiest girl in the sixth grade — into an upper branch where none of my siblings or friends would see. That secret I shared only with the tree.
Next was a 20-inch diameter bur oak that was a mere pole when we had the cloths line tied around its sturdy trunk. Now it was just beginning to realize its true potential and could easily last another century or two. It just didn’t seem fair. But it was here as a boy that I had learned life is not always fair, among countless other lessons.
My last stop was a towering blue spruce rooted in the front yard. As I stood by it, I quietly thought like Dorothy said to the scarecrow, “I think I am going to miss you most of all.” Planted about eight years before my birth, I had literally grown up with this tree.
It was a favorite hiding spot for our games of kick the can. It was second base for our almost daily wiffle ball games, a 10-foot high row of mulberry trees pruned into a hedge serving as an adequate replica of the ivy covered walls of Wrigley Field.
To the workers that come to cut down these trees, this will probably be simply another job, some more trees. Somehow I wanted them to know they were more than that.
Walking back to my car, I again looked at the boxelder and spruce. Another’s eyes may have seen the stately spruce as a beauty and the crooked boxelder a beast. My eyes made no such distinction knowing the boxelder had supported our tire swing for years. It was a cogent reminder that indeed, beauty is in the eyes of the beholder.
“Wisconsin Life” is a co-production of Wisconsin Public Radio and PBS Wisconsin. The project celebrates what makes the state unique through the diverse stories of its people, places, history and culture.
