Turns out my dad is a Lorax.
I had a plan for two ponderosa pines. They were going to be the cornerstones of my property. One on each corner of my little green postage stamp of a lot, broadcasting to the world that a mountain girl lives here.
My dad has been less than enthusiastic about helping me put them in the ground. For months, I found this deeply inconvenient.
I miss pine trees.
I miss the smell of warm pine needles and sap. Warm cedar. The soft ground underneath them.
Atascadero’s oaks have grown on me. We’ve developed a rapport. I held them in contempt for a long time for being so pokey compared with the smooth beds of pine needles I grew up running through. Not conducive to bare feet.
But I took a walk with a friend through his new neighborhood and found myself admiring all the different trees growing there. His neighbors had willows, aspens, pine trees and several others I couldn’t name.
Massive pine trees.
Beautiful pine trees.
I started picturing trees that size on my little lot. Branches extending over the street, my neighbor’s driveway and my house. Something I loved potentially becoming somebody else’s problem.
And there it was.
My insistence on putting these trees in the ground could ultimately be the reason they get cut down.
Apparently, my heart had more acreage than my yard.
Picking the right tree for a space requires considerably more forethought than I have given these two pine trees currently living in wine barrels.
I’ve been writing about giving mature trees a chance to stay. Apparently that conversation also needs to happen before I plant them.
I had thought about what these trees would mean to me. I hadn’t thought enough about what my yard would mean for them.
How wide would they get, not just how tall? What room would their roots have? Would the soil, drainage and water available actually suit them? And where would my house, the driveway and the utilities fit into all of that?
Those are the kinds of questions in the University of California’s guidance on choosing a planting location. Questions I would encourage someone else to ask before getting attached to a plan. Apparently I needed the reminder too.
Cal Poly’s SelecTree lets you compare mature height, canopy width, water needs and soil preferences. Useful information to have before making a decision based primarily on how much you miss the smell of pine needles.
For my ponderosas, its tree guide lists a height of 90 feet and a canopy width of 30 feet, while noting that the species can grow much taller. Those aren’t guaranteed dimensions for my particular trees, but they certainly put my two little corner markers into perspective.
I still want my little piece of the mountains. I just don’t want to plant something I love in a place where it will eventually become something somebody wants removed.
I’ve also decided I don’t want to keep these pines in containers just to control their size, their beauty or their power. I want these pines of mine to grow. I want them to sequester as much carbon as they can. I want their roots in healthy soil and their branches stretching out into the space they need. And if that soil needs to be somewhere other than my property, so be it.
Before they leave those wine barrels, I want to make sure their next home gives them the soil, water, care and room they need.
Turns out my dad may have been saving their lives.
From me.
Turns out good intentions are not all it takes. Arming yourself with information is important too. Essential, actually. Plant the tree. Just maybe figure out which tree belongs where first.
Anyone know a nerdy arborist?