 |
| BAYFIELD'S FIRST HERITAGE TREE |
Wednesday, 8:00 AM. 64 degrees F at the ferry dock, 60 on the back porch. Wind NNW, light with stronger gusts. Humidity 78%, barometer steady at 30.17". Looks like pleasant weather ahead.
The following poem was written by local author Howard Paap for the dedication of Bayfield's first Heritage Tree on Sunday, August 28, 2016.
THE BIG OAK ON 2ND
STREET
(Heritage Tree – 2016)
by Howard D. Paap
Today we stand beneath this towering giant
With
awe filled children’s eyes,
An
oak so old, yet still so young,
Its
strong arms reaching for the skies.
We
honor ye, this ancient tree,
At
home on 2nd Street.
Why
pay homage to a tree?
These
old red bricks a blanket at its feet.
These
giant oaks may dot our land
With
hungry mouths pressed sweet to earth
But
none can claim our hearts as thee
This
our red oak, so wide of girth.
Oak
trees may come and go
But
ours still standing tall
This
the tree the young Boutins did climb
And
sometimes from it fall.
Just
up from Myers barn it was
Where
horses stayed to rest and eat
This
tree for years and years,
The
big red oak up on 2nd Street.
What
have such trees seen,
What
have they felt and known?
As
saplings in the sun
Where
ancient pines had grown?
‘Twas
a time when money had us on the move
When
folly romped so loud and free
Soon
forest and fish were gone, the brownstone passé
Oh,
to stand our ground like thee.
“Grow
where you are planted,” you said,
“Wander
not across this land.”
Over
time you admonished us,
Here,
beside this big lake to make our stand.
For
Bayfield, like this tree of old,
Our
memory post
Had
storms of trials of time
At
some we laugh, of others we do not boast.
But
what say ye, old red oak tree?
I’ve seen them off to the Civil War, then
Nº’s 1 and 2,
and the fighting still today goes on. The
mills rose
around me, then fell apart, their dust
and dirt under
our streets. I watched the sails turn to
steam then black
diesel, the stable and hooves gave way to
gasoline and
rubber tires. In the flood of ’42 the
dead floated by,
the quarrymen and fisherfolk of early
time. Then in
our street rose the refrain to “rush the
can,” hurry the
beer from the tap to the workers, their
thirst to quench.
The kiln-shed across the street became
Mr. Dunker’s
Bookshop, those books filled with what is
yearned for,
a laugh, some wisdom, and a tear. Those
tomes, like
me, strong and ever ready. I watched the
traders and
government-men come and go, to deal with
my first
neighbors, copper skinned folk just to
the north, those
keepers of trees. I watched the apples
and berries
come down the hill, the milk brought to
town (and
now I see the Creamery serves up a
different suds!).
And finally came the tourists, those
lovers of ice
cream cones, but through it all I still
stand where I
was planted.
Oh,
our friend, you Heritage Oak
Your
voice rings loud and clear!
Your
arms spread wide, roots still deep,
‘cause
of you today we gather here.
We
humans, now your constant companions,
May
we forever your welfare keep!
Our
dreams, before they deign to pass,
Should
never crash, through all time run deep.
Oh
tree of old, our hearts in our hands you hold!
••••••••••••••••••
OFF THE CUFF
Wild fires are burning again in Yellowstone National Park, during this, the 100th Anniversary of the Park Service. When visiting in May we noted that fires were imminent, as there was standing dead and partially burned timber everywhere. Nature is an effective, but exceedingly cruel and destructive, forester.
S
