Dying Ash, A Fable in Search of a Moral
No one knows how long the ash has been there. It wasn’t planted but grew out of a samara dropped into this ledge overlooking the Hop Brook valley. That was probably well before houses were built so high in the Berkshire hills, but sometime after the charcoal industry had died out. The ash looms over the house now, the tallest thing around, maybe 70 feet. Taller by a third than the nearby oak that is having another mast year. But the ash is dying, has been dying for a while, even as the upper branches were still sending out a few leaves this spring, those lovely compound leaves, arranged in neat opposites, according to nature’s laws.
Genus Fraximus, meaning “spear” in Latin. Not for the shape of its leaves, ovate with pointed tips, and delicately saw-toothed, but for the strength of the wood. From Neolithic times the ash has been favored for its shock absorbance, ideal for weapon, tool, or sport-- axe handles, carriage wheels, oars, paddles, pallets; hockey sticks, snowshoes, walking sticks, baseball bats, and beams.
But one shock it could not absorb. Not long ago an emerald ash borer pressed its copper belly like a lover on the diamond-patterned bark, and dug into the pith, destroying the gentle giant. Just half an inch long, the adult borer lives only three weeks, long enough to deposit its eggs. Indeed, most of the ash trees in these hinterlands are dying, and ash makes up at least a quarter of the forest here. Those purple boxes that appeared in the trees a few years ago were just diagnostic. No need for confirmation now; the borers have arrived like Trojan horses. The bark grooves deepen, the trunk is “blonding.” There is no doubt.
Maybe it’s wrong to put a moral tag on nature’s ways, or to call its changes tragedies. But once we find a story, we want a human meaning. We may sense the irony of the tale, the false presumption of size—the lofty ash, the tiny beetle, like the lion and the mouse. But that fable is about noblesse oblige and the unexpected return of a kindness. There is no mutualism here.
Nor can we draw a lesson against complacency from this story of the ash and the emerald borer. Plants cannot run away. But where would they run to anyway when the invader is everywhere, up and down the eastern half of America? Plants do take measures to protect themselves. Like all trees, the ash has evolved many defenses against its familiar threats. The ash is drought resistant, for instance. Its thick bark is a barrier against animals, and it secretes proteins and toxins that are poison to many insects. Were it a fatalist it would not have lived so long. It can handle the adversaries it grew up with. But evolution was too slow to prepare for the sudden invasion of stowaways from Asia. The emerald ash borer has disarmed the ash.
Why should we take the side of the tree, consider its needs only, maligning the ash borer as an alien demon? Its garish coat and insect form certainly tend us this way. Still, it did not plot this invasion. It was borne by ship on some beams cut for human use. The emerald ash borer doesn’t mean to kill the ash—it loves the ash in its way, just as we do in ours. Like many insects, the emerald ash borer is a specialist. We might draw a lesson here about the failure to diversify, or better, the need for restraint. Why would any living thing devour entirely what it requires to survive? Why wouldn’t it control its appetite, take only what it needs, limit its consumption, allow its resource to flourish? There are many examples, alas, of such parasites in the world, who fail to look ahead, to recognize the signs of excess and pull back. Their love lacks temperance and forethought. (Yes, we know this.) As the young ash borer hops through the forest, tree to tree, unaware it is killing what it loves, it is plotting its own extinction as well as the ash’s.
But we have forgotten another figure in the story. What about the house just a few yards away? Under its wooden beams, meanings and morals are made. From the house might come compassion for the dying and forgiveness of the killer, a sense of loss in the depletion of the forest. Even guilt and obligation. But it’s also a practical story. The house is concerned with its own vulnerability and inability to move out of the way. “Safe as houses,” the old saw says. But the house has been over-confident. It has sprayed against carpenter ants and other devourers, has mercilessly sealed out the field mice every winter. It has stood against inclement weather, hailstorms, and blizzards. But what if the ash falls over someday, as surely it will, soon, since it is dying? On firm ground it would likely collapse piece by piece, dropping its brittle branches, then its top. But here on the rocky ledge, where houses never used to be, the roots might not hold. It would then fall directly over the full length of the roof, splitting the house like an axe splits firewood. The house anticipates this moment in a vague way, almost hearing a crash late at night, and thinks tomorrow it might do something, but the thought remains in the attic.
Would it be wise to cut down the ash, to preempt the severing of the wooden house? Nature fells most of its faltering structures. The owl feels the tremor under its wings and flies off to another outpost without grief. But the house is rigid. And taking down a 70-foot tree comes with its own risk. The crash would be tremendous. Is there a lesson here, about choice and risk, about not turning away or putting off till it’s too late because preventive measures are costly and not guaranteed; have their own harmful consequences? The house shudders and goes back to sleep in the dark. Except for one light, in a corner room upstairs, that stays on late, listening to the owl, and trying to learn its lesson of agility.
Bonnie Costello divides her time between Boston and western Massachusetts, and practices both literary criticism and creative writing. Read more.