The Red-Headed Giant

THE RED-HEADED GIANT

By Robert L Neulieb

   The winds of March extended well into April. A constant drizzle was this year’s showers. But Saturday the twins, Jane and John, awakened to blazing shafts of light entering their east bedrooms. Although nearly teens, they still eagerly awaited their first traipse through their “Twelve Acre Garden”---the rocky slope between the lower and upper fields. Spring, before the leaves of the maple grove intercept the sunlight, promised a most pleasant array of floral colors and shapes. But their thoughts mostly focused on the Red-headed Giant. Would anything be left?

   Many rewards awaited their quarter mile jaunt down their farm road through the lower field. Trilliums, both white and red, barely surpassed the number of bloodroots. Among the rocks hepaticas dominated. Marsh marigolds

ruled the lowland at the base of the cliff. Spring-beauties were everywhere. Locating the enchanting shapes of the Dutchman’s-breeches, squirrel-corns and Jack-in-the-pulpits required only a little exploration. 

   But the twins’ thoughts again focused on “The Red-Headed Giant”, the once huge sugar maple renowned for its autumnal display. Years and winds had diminished it

until they renamed it the “Feeble Giant”, yet it still contributed much to their past.  Then as they rounded the last bend before the upper field, they saw it.  The whipping storms had deposited about three-quarters of the giant across the farm road.  “This fall it’ll look like a “Red-Handed Dwarf,” Jane remarked, “with just one branch extending over Trail Creek.”

   “At least we’ll have one more Indian Summer to spot its leaves floating past our yard.  We’d better enjoy it; it’ll probably be the last.  Anyway, getting in the fire wood will be easy.  We may not have to fall any of the scraggly dead elms.”

   “Remember what Grandfather said last Thanksgiving?”

   “You mean the last six at least.  When farming was king your garden and maple grove was a pasture with about a dozen large maples trees including the “Red-Headed Giant”.  The road and yard were lined with even larger and more stately elms.  Elms were the heart and soul of New England villages. “ John added, ” It’s so hard to imagine.”

   For the twins, Thanksgiving, along with Christmas Eve and New Years Eve were always three special nights fueled by fallen branches, many from the giant.  With the large fireplace unsealed, Mother would concoct traditional foods placed in hanging pots swung over the fire.  Their favorite, spoon bread, from freshly ground cornmeal, homemade maple syrup and hand-churned butter became dessert.

   Then Father’s voice, the fluttering fire’s glow, full bellies and youthful imaginations sent a swing soaring over a garden wall, a beanstalk complete with giant crashing to earth, Rumpelstiltskin’s foot splintering through the floor and seven dwarves with their picks and shovels marching off to work in their mine.  As they grew older a bow twanged and an arrow split its opponents; muskets flashed and cutlasses clashed.  Then early settler Jane and Abraham Lincoln John would scoot up on the hearth to find enough light for embroidering and reading.

  Father explained, “Wood is stored sunlight.  You can always recover the heat, but the light is greatly degraded.  That’s why you don’t need blackened welder’s eye protectors.”

Mother would add a new log and describe how wood was made. This turned out to be a favorite, especially for John.

   One sunny spring day, almost like today, the fourth-grade class, suffering from cabin fever, was, let’s say rambunctious. Mrs. Havreworth, trying to quiet the students, finally shouted, “I want you to learn something. In only eight years you will have to be ready for college or jobs. Remember nothing is going to come out of thin air!”

   Both shy Jane and bold John knew the folly of that statement. John couldn’t resist.

“That’s where the wood for your chair and desk came from.”  Well, let’s just say that wasn’t what was needed to calm the situation.

    However, ten days later, Mrs. Havreworth gave a special science presentation explaining that John was correct. The wood was almost completely a combination of carbon dioxide and water united with lots of energy while releasing oxygen. Since the water would have come from the rain clouds floating in air, his statement about “thin air” was basically true. She, indeed, loved this class and slipped in, “Next time I will need a truer truism.” John beamed and Jane wished she would be bolder. Mrs. Havreworth added, “The wood eventually returns to thin air though decay, fire, etc.”

  Seeing that the road would soon be needed, John realized that a busy weekend awaited them. He broke their reminiscing. “Remember sitting on the bank of Trail Creek and shouting “Red-Headed Giant” every time we saw one of its brilliant leaves float by on its way to Miller’s River?”

   “I’ll be there this fall shouting. It’ll probably be our last.’ ”

   “I know that the soil is deeper and richer and “The Red-Headed Giant” parented and grandparented much of our garden’s maple grove, but, Jane, it’s still sad to think it will soon be gone.”

   “Don’t you remember New Years Eve?”

   He felt relief, “Of course, all of those leaves, years and years of leaves, floating down Trail Creek to Miller’s River and eventually into the Atlantic; so many of them stored away in sediment forever.”  

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