A good friend who lived at the top of the hill behind my place passed away this summer. Her name was Fagus, a Latin name I believe.
I’m guessing that Fagus was close to 100 years old. I can’t be certain because I never counted her growth rings.
Yes, my friend Fagus was a tree. Fagus Grandifolia is the official name for North American beech, those heavily crowned forest sentinels with smooth bluish-grey bark and saw-tooth leaves.
I don’t know what killed her. It was likely beech bark disease, which has become a grim reaper in Ontario’s beech stands. The disease is caused by the combination of a canker fungus and the beech bark beetle, an invasive bug from Europe.
Fagus had a short life, considering beeches can live for 200 or more years. But hers was a happy and productive life, spent giving and helping others.
It might seem odd to be writing an obituary about a tree. However, trees have lives similar to humans. Like us they are born from seed, grow through life stages of childhood, young adulthood, maturity and old age. Like us they have to fight off diseases and try to protect themselves from natural disasters.
They are a vital part of overall life on this planet, probably more so than we humans, and deserve recognition and respect.
Fagus stood on the edge of a trail I use regularly. Whenever I walked up the hill I stopped and leaned against her trunk to catch my breath.
I often thought it would be nice to talk to Fagus, to hear her story and what changes she has seen over the last century. Some indigenous cultures believe that trees have spirits that talk and people can speak with them if they listen deeply and learn their language.
There is no solid evidence of that but scientists tell us that trees do communicate with each other through underground fungal networks. There is a growing pile of research that shows trees send water and nutrients to each other through underground networks that also carry warning signals about dangers such as disease and insect attacks.
I know little about talking to trees, but I have learned much about Fagus’ life just by observing her and her surroundings.
Fagus believed that even as a lone individual she had a critical role in sustaining the world around her. She gave of herself fully and her generosity was evident everywhere.
She regularly dropped high-protein nuts that gave bears, deer and some smaller critters the energy and strength they need to live in their harsh environments.
She sheltered many birds in her dense foliage, protecting them from predators and killer storms. Birds, squirrels and chipmunks gave birth to their young in nests she allowed them to build in cavities created where branches were torn from her trunk by strong winds and heavy snows.
During her life Fagus took in about 48 pounds of carbon dioxide a year, or more than two tons over her 100 years. She released enough oxygen into the air for 10 people to inhale each year.
It was all part of that miracle process called photosynthesis in which trees take in and store harmful carbons and give off helpful oxygen. Without photosynthesis there would be no plant life on earth, and therefore no human life.
Fagus dropped her leaves every autumn, fertilizing and protecting the soil around her. Her massive crown of leaves provided shade that helped to regulate temperature extremes.
Along with all her good work, Fagus also raised children who are the promise of a strong, healthy forest future.
Even in death Fagus is not finished giving. Her wood could be used for plywood, pallets or even railroad ties. However, I’ll cut her wood into rounds, and split them for the woodstove because beech burns hot and slowly and is rated among the top firewoods.
I’m sad to see Fagus gone, but happy for the generosity of her life. Like humans she provided much good, but unlike humans she never did anything bad.
Thank you, Fagus. You were kind and generous, and beautiful to look at.
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