After settling into our house in January of 2000, the silver maples out front quickly became integral to our idea of home. They were sort of like heirloom furniture–cherished and comfortable, arranged pleasantly in an expansive, open-air room.  No, they were more than that; they were almost like our extended family, part of our beloved community.  My husband attached a rope swing to a branch on one of the trees closest to the house, and it became a favorite spot for our daughter and her friends.  Other trees served as her lookout perches.  The maples were frequent backdrops for Christmas card photos and others of our daughter and dog that I sent to grandparents throughout the year.  The trees have been gracious hosts to our feathered and furry friends.  They’re particularly popular with woodpeckers.  Last fall I watched as two enormous pileated woodpeckers worked their prodigious beaks like jackhammers on opposite sides of an upper branch in one of the trees.  

We knew when we moved in that the old trees were nearing the end of their life span.  Silver maples aren’t  like oaks that can endure for centuries.  We tried to keep them trimmed to enhance their longevity, but our efforts had their limits. 

The tree nearest the street at the center point of our front yard was the first to begin losing some major limbs.  In the above photo from 2010, one of the big branches had recently fallen.  

 

Our house sits on a sharp curve of a narrow road.  The trees along this outer edge are vulnerable to errant vehicles.  We lost count of the number of times that a driver misjudged the curve or lost traction after a rain and collided with the tree above.  As limbs fell or were removed, it became the  stump that we decorated each year for Christmas.   The protective bulk that remained continued to be a useful block for our yard, so we allowed it to diminish and decay naturally.  Even in its last gasps, the tree, paradoxically,  was full of life.  Its final remains became a  hub of fantastical lichen growth.  

The tree toward the center of the photo above became a home for a family of barred owls in the spring of 2004.  I remember standing on the front porch with my father as we spotted a big, beautiful owl soaring toward the tree.  Its wingspan was immense.  Amazingly, the bird disappeared into a cavity high atop the tree.  A bit later it emerged, flew away, and returned to repeat the process.  I was peering through binoculars when I saw a huge eye staring back at me from inside the tree, right after the owl had departed.  We gaped in awe as a second large owl emerged.  Wow!  Both parents were coming and going, we realized.  Often, one owl  would keep vigil on a branch near the nest.  Slightly smaller than the other, we presumed her to be the female.  Exuding gravitas, she eyed our family with cool confidence.  Did we imagine that she was sizing up our small daughter, who would start kindergarten in the fall, as potential prey?  Could she manage a catch of that size?  We doubted it, but we didn’t let D go out in the yard alone.  While the mother guarded the nest, the male typically remained within eyesight, watching from a more secluded post.  

After a while, we began to catch glimpses of their young.  Two pale, fluffy heads began to peek out from the cavity.  Then we started to see the mother owl disappear inside the tree and pop back out nearly immediately.  She did this over and over.  Next she’d sit on a nearby branch and gaze intently at the nest.  Soon, we’d see an owlet emerging, tentatively, from inside the tree.  The mother, it seemed, was encouraging her young to venture out, to give their wings a try.  How scary that thought must be for a young bird!  After a while, the female appeared to dive emphatically into the tree cavity, as though she were losing patience.  “Come on!,” her body language said.  “You can do it!  Trust me!”  

We didn’t witness the owlets’ first actual flight, but I saw proof of their new-found ability.  One morning I was out in the yard shortly after dawn, when I saw the two owlets outside the nest.  Their fuzzy, pearl-gray bodies were draped, liked minimally stuffed dog toys (or those melting Dali clocks!) over the branch of a nearby tree, just above my head.  Their eyes were closed.  I remember gasping audibly, because I thought they were dead.  I waited in trepidation, hoping for signs of life.  Just when I was about to assume the worst, the owlets began to stir.  Their big, dark eyes opened.  They groggily roused themselves and gradually summoned the energy to sit up.  Whew!  They’d survived what must have been an exhausting first night of flight.  We saw the young ones flying short distances a couple of times.  And soon afterwards, the whole family was gone.  

When the natural shelf for the nest collapsed the next year, my husband and daughter worked together to build an owl box, seen above and below, and attached it to the tree.  When the owls failed to return to the box in its initial placement, my husband positioned it much higher up on the limb, as seen below.  Over the years, we often hear the distinctive cries of barred owls in our neighborhood:  Hoo hoo hoo hoo!  Who Cooks for You?  But never again have they nested in one of our trees.  

We were eating Easter dinner on the back porch on a quiet, perfectly still afternoon in April 2011 when we heard a thunderous crash.  We rushed to the front yard to discover, with dismay, that half of the owl tree had fallen heavily to the ground.  Sadly, we had no choice but to have the remaining, unstable portion removed. Like the owl family, the owl tree left us suddenly and too soon.  

 

The spring of the owls coincided with peak season for the seventeen-year cicadas.  Our maples, we discovered, are choice cicada territory.  Our yard was abuzz with the lumbering, clumsy creatures, and the maple trunks were studded with a multitude of tan exoskeletons.  Our daughter, ever a fan of nature in all her odd manifestations, found the cicadas charming.  The owls evidently shared her appreciation, or at least they recognized in the slow-moving insects an easy food source for themselves and their young.  

For the past ten years or so, only the two maples closest to the house have remained.  Their long branches created the leafy frame through which I will always imagine our home.  On snowy, moonlit nights, the shadows cast by the trees were magical.  

As of this month, the maple frame is lopsided.  In mid-July, we experienced the start of the series of unfortunate weather events that would lead to the fall and removal of one of the long-lived pair.  The last surviving maple, we’re told, has exceeded its life span.  Likely, it’s not long for this world.  Much as when a well-loved family member lives to a ripe old age, we’ll try to be grateful for the many good years we shared.