The Tree at the End of the Block

I know next to nothing about trees. If it's not a maple, sumac or locust, I'm not likely to recognize it. I do know a pine when I see one, of course, but can I identify the specific variety? No, I cannot.

So I can't tell you what the tree at the end of the block was. I can tell you it was tall and had obviously been in the yard behind the tavern for some time, granting shade to many days of drunken camaraderie, many nights of lovers leaning against its bark, sharing their first or fourth or 832nd kiss. In the summer, it was a green umbrella. In autumn, its boughs sang in harmony with the other trees up and down the street.

In addition to being tall, it also had a noticeable lean to it, inclining toward the east. Maybe it was because that was where it got the majority of its sunlight, its western source at least partially obscured by the large apartment buildings across the alley, or maybe because the earth in which it rested was softer than the clay-laced soil common to the area. Or maybe it was just because of all the west winds that had no doubt buffeted it over the decades.

Whatever the case, the tree leaned east. And one day last week, as I slouched home from the train, I looked at the tree and wondered aloud, "How is it that you're till standing there after all these years? Why has nothing had blown you down when so many others have fallen around you?"

This morning, when I got up, the skies outside grew steadily darker instead of customarily lighter. When I turned on my radio, set perpetually to the AM all-news station, the static crackle of lightning could be heard. Still in my underwear, I stumbled to the living room and popped on the TV. The local weather radar showed a long red line of storms rapidly advancing on the Chicago. It looked like it was stomping through the western suburbs. Maybe if I sped up my routine--shower, shave and dress more quickly than usual--I could beat the storms?

No chance. As I was pulling on my pants, strong winds roared down my street, and it started raining sideways. Oh well. Might as well slow down and wait it out.

I wound up leaving at my normal time. By then, the rain had let up a bit and was merely a heavy squall rather than a monsoon. When I turned the corner and reached the end of the block, this is what I saw. It was almost like the tree was attempting to be polite by falling through the gate, as if to say, "I'm sorry to come down after so many years, but I'll try to do as little damage on the way down as possible." Of course, no matter how courteous it was trying to be, the tree still clipped the fence and pretty much took the gate with it.

In the yard behind the tavern, where the tree once swayed, only a few scattered, broken boughs and a freshly jagged stump remained.