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.
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