I’ve mentioned before that I still live in the house where I grew up. It’s an old home on an old street, so naturally it’s surrounded by massive old trees. For instance, the box-elder that stands at the center of the Bennion Compound was fully mature when my parents moved in 38 years ago; my guess is that it’s 60 years old if it’s a day, possibly more. It’s a huge tree, composed of three separate trunks that diverge out away from a thick base in a sort of triangular configuration.
When I was a kid, my dad built me the coolest treehouse anyone in town had ever seen, with three levels nestled between the triple trunks and connected by gangway stairs, a fireman’s pole and a rope swing, and, on the top deck, a good-sized shack with a shingled roof, an electric light, and an old car radio for entertainment.

At some point in the tree’s long life, someone wrapped a chain around its base; the tree eventually grew around and absorbed the chain, so that the end of it emerged from the bark as if it were a perfectly organic and natural thing. I recall an occasion when Dad attached a come-along to that chain and fastened the other end to a wrecked car; he did the same thing on the opposite side of the car, running a cable from a second come-along around another tree that used to stand behind the house. Then, bit by bit, one click of the rachet mechanism at a time, he put that car under tension until the twisted frame gradually straightened. By the time he was finished, the car was as good as new.

I mention these anecdotes to illustrate how that box-elder has always symbolized eternal strength in my mind, unbudging and resolute, the Rock of Gibralter of trees. If I’d bothered to think about it, I probably would have told you that since it was there before I was born, it would most likely be there after I’m gone.

So imagine my surprise and confusion when I got home from work on Friday evening and saw this:

All that greenery there on the ground is the eastern-most of the three trunks; it snapped and fell at some point during the day, probably not long before I got home, judging from how moist and green the leaves still were. That orange thing you can see in the midst of it all is my dad’s little Bobcat tractor; there’s also a couple of those portable canvas garages under all that green, one of which contains a 1957 Chevy.

More photos after the cut.

Here’s the view from my back lawn, a good portion of which was covered by branches and leaves:

And here’s what’s left of the trunk:

As you can see, there was a fair amount of rot in the middle of it. I don’t think there was any wind that day. My guess is that the weight of the canopy — which hasn’t been trimmed in many years — finally just overwhelmed the weakened trunk.
You can also see the Chevy in the background; believe it or not, the car was unhurt once my folks and I, with some welcome assistance from The Girlfriend, got all that crap off of it. The frame of the shelter was mashed, but I think it must’ve been supporting some of the weight, holding the worst of it off the car. The car was pinned down to the ground, but not crushed. I’m just thankful the trunk came down during the day while I was gone; if it had fallen at night, my Mustang would’ve been parked in the second shelter, and I doubt a 2003 ragtop would’ve come through with the same aplomb as 50-year-old Detroit steel.