 Like old soldiers, ancient trees never say die and they fade away even more slowlyWhen people buy a run-down rural or suburban dwelling, usually at much less cost than building for themselves, they derive a special kind of satisfaction from renovating their old "bargain," or so remodeling as to make it truly their own, not just a hand-me-down. Money and effort so spent seem to them doubly creative, as indeed they are. In proportion as the house is ancient, the newcomers are preserving history, and converting to their own comfort a valid remnant of human experience. Hand in hand with an old house usually come old trees —mute but vital witnesses to the thought and feeling that made this place a home. Restoring these remnants too will help the newcomers to express and establish their own home-love, and more profoundly. The old house could be replaced by a new one in a matter of months. To regrow the old trees might take a century. The question of what to do for old trees, and when to do it, is never so pressing as questions about an ancient house. This is a large part of old trees' charm. There they have stood for generations, while people came and went; and there, though they may be infirm and slowly dying, they will continue to stand for some time to come. Like old soldiers, old trees never say die, and unless they are hit by a sure killer such as Dutch elm disease or chestnut blight, their fadeaway is slower and more gradual than most humans'. Resuscitating them can wait at least until the old house's new roof is paid for. |
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