Gabriella Brand

My essay “Skycrapers” is an homage to city trees. It appeared in Woods Reader, a Minnesota-based publication dedicated to those who love the forested outdoors. Read the essay here: Skyscrapers

Where I live, it’s all too easy to take trees for granted. Believe it or not, Connecticut is the fourteenth most forested state in the country. We are blessed with an abundance of Red Oaks, Black Birch, Hemlocks, Sugar Maples, Beech, Pignut Hickories, and more. When I hike our trails, trees are always part of the package, providing shade, beauty and oxygen.Yet I fear that I don’t pay these beautiful hiking companions quite as much attention as they deserve. 

Give me an urban tree, however, and I go gaga.

I stop and look and smile, maybe whisper a little thank you.  Seeing a tree growing in a congested metropolis is the best of surprises. Well, look at you, I want to say. What are you doing here smack dab in the middle of a gritty city? 

Sometimes I take the train into Manhattan, eighty miles from my home. My mind is far away from trees. I’ll just be walking along, surrounded by metal, concrete, glass, commerce, and noise. Taxis will be beeping their horns, pedestrians will be jostling each other, and there, on the edge of the sidewalk, I’ll come across a tree that calls my attention. Maybe it’s a flaming Red Maple, or a Katsura, standing proud against pollution, defying encroachment. Maybe it’s an ordinary London Plane, but there’s something about its shape that catches my eye. So while other people keep crossing the street, I am smitten, like a woman in love, and I stop to touch its bark. Oh, I think, I need this. I need to remember soil and sap, the stickiness of the natural world. I need to be reminded of the earth itself, which is so often hidden under the cityscape.

If I happen to catch the smell of a pear tree as its blossoms drift across New York City, I am beside myself with joy. Yes, Manhattan has Callery Pear trees in large number. (The first one planted by Peter Stuyvesant himself.) Some people might want to visit Times Square. I get far more pleasure from seeing a cluster of Callery Pears blooming along Seventh Avenue.

Even in a city known for its beauty, like Paris, a special stand of trees will stop me in my tracks. There’s a group of Linden trees that grow along the Seine, right near the Ile de la Cité. Once, after an afternoon spent with very talkative friends and visiting the crowded Louvre, I found myself grateful for those linden trees, their real-ness, if you will. They bent towards the river, like gnarled old women, unconcerned with fashion or posture or trend. 

Sometimes I’ll be traveling in a crowded part of the world, my head a bit distraught, and I’ll come across an urban tree that will immediately soothe my spirit, reminding me that there is more to the world than people with their constant egos and their occasional rudeness. That’s what trees can do for us. Whether in the woods or in a city center, they can say, Look up! Look up into our branches! We’re living too. Quietly doing our jobs. Supplying oxygen. Cleaning the skies. Holding back stormwater. Being beautiful. Making you happy. 

I live near New Haven, Connecticut, affectionately known as The Elm City, although most of its elms were devoured by Dutch Elm disease in the 1930’s. But there are other wonderful trees bordering the streets such as Hawthornes,Tulip Poplars, Mulberries, and a new crop of Elms. I remember once walking along the edge of the university campus, hemmed in by the pseudo-gothic buildings, the buzz of students. My younger son was about four years old at the time. He had been whiny as we left a doctor’s office. On Temple Street, we came upon dozens of Honey Locust seed pods lying on the sidewalk. If you shook them, they rattled. If you broke them open, the seeds tumbled out. The City of New Haven had planted lots of Honey Locust to replace the dying elms. Is there anything better than a couple of long, brown, noisy seed pods to cheer up a preschooler? 

Just when personal or world problems seem too much to bear, I often come upon a city tree that stokes my spirit. A few months after my father died, I was taking a group of students to Mexico. I wasn’t really looking forward to it. We had changed planes in Mexico City, where crowds pushed against us and the commercial bustle in the airport was particularly grating on my nerves. I missed my father. My mood still stayed sober as we flew on to the city of Oaxaca, where, at least, the air was warm and fragrant and I began to relax. But it wasn’t until the next day that my heart grew lighter. The guides we engaged took us to see the Montezuma Cypress, known as the Arbol del Tule, which is one of the oldest trees in the world. It is estimated to be between 1200 and 3000 years old, with some saying it could even be 6000 years old. It stands in a church yard, not in the woods, not in a forest. Just right there, growing through wars and plagues and invasions and inventions. It had been there already for many centuries by the time my father was born and it was still there after he died. What a beautiful reminder that life goes on, generation after generation. 

Of course, I treasure all trees, but I particularly enjoy the surprise and wonder of urban trees. They are nature’s skyscrapers, each with a special message for the world. They remind us that we humans are not the only species. A tree growing in a city serves as a contrast to consumerism, to the asphalting of our planet, and pulls us closer to the interwoven web of all existence.