Early autumn bouquet

Snap!

Tree damage in Riverside Park, perhaps from Thursday night's squall.

If you can make it out, imagine that opening of sky was once filled with a tree canopy, and look down to where the trunk of that tree was and, in part, still is. Then look left, to see where the snapped-off tree fell, and up and down to see the damage done to the tree on which it fell.

Bicenquinquagenary

What to call the upcoming 250th celebrations? 

The current regime (Robert Reich argues we shouldn't defile words like "administration," "president" or even "government" to describe these lawless brigands, but "regime" is OK) has found ways to make even "1776" and "250" toxic (taxpayer-funded slush fund for paramilitary thugs? monstrous arch of vanity?), confirming their unworthiness of the history they claim to embody. What can we say worthy of that history?

Although decades of reconstruction await, I think the rest of us will muddle through. I'm heartened by Jill Lepore's wry perspective on the 1976 bicentennial ("by almost any measure, 2026 is a goat rodeo") and Heather Cox Richardson's just-unveiled "250 to 250" project, among other interventions. This history, as Richardson reminds us, is ours. 

But what to call the whole thing? The official moniker "semiquincentennial" - half of five hundred - gives me thousand year Reich vibes. A long view of history suggests that two hundred fifty years is a pretty impressive achievement. Most empires don't last that long, let alone longer. Invoking five hundred years sounds grandiose and presumptuous. (Most trees don't live nearly that long, for instance.) 

I'll settle for bicenquinquagenary (a term I encountered first at Princeton's 250th in 1996). If that sounds a little wobbly and weird, so much the better. At its best, the United States of America has always been a little loopy and piety-challenging.

Blizzard of 2026

After nineten inches of snow finished falling, NYC was a sight to see!

How it begins

First blizzard warning for NYC in nine years!

Chlorofilibuster

Old growth

A giant has fallen - well, half of a giant. A northern red oak in nearby Riverside Park, which at over 350 years may be among the city's oldest trees, split in two in a heavy storm in early July. I don't know what effect this will have on the remaining tree, not being an arborist. But the open wound surely makes it vulnerable to further loss. 

Looking through my old photos (with the help of Photos automatically tagging places), I find I never took a picture of kin! Too big, I guess - I know from trying that it's nigh impossible to convey the size of a tall tree, not to mention the highest canopy beyond the canopy. But here it was, in early November 2020 (in fact it was the day after the election), forming the dark background on the left as I was trying to capture the sense of a portal into the light. (It's taken from the other side of the Forever Wild walk which went beneath those branches.) 

Tre stagione

On an unseasonably warm day, sights of three seasons!

Fall holdovers are charming but precocious spring's alarming.

Battlers

Just some trees doin' their resilient thing in Riverside Park...

Thorns

Honey locust getting in the mood

Garden party

Daffys

Meanwhile in Riverside Park, sure signs of spring!

Gnarly

Fungal flourishing

Autumn descends

Disarmed

Also in "Religion of Trees" today, we sketched from life - and from death. I had students return to the trees we had festooned with masks last week - do you sense they are watching you still, I asked? - but also to witness a fallen branch which had been parked in front of the entrance to our school. It's from the little leaf linden across the street. How did it get here, we asked, concluding it must have falled into the street and been dragged to our doorstep because there was space. Was anything beneath it when it fell, we wondered? I decided not to share this reminder of the weight of falling branches we saw in Riverside Park over the weekend... 

Autumn approaches

Splashes of color

Cherry blossoms against backgrounds

Still