Channeling Bill Douglas
A tiny sprig of a thing - an orphan alone in our garden -
the sprout might have died. Grubbing weeds between azalea shrubs one spring
day, I nearly yanked the small shoot out of the dark soil - a seedling no more
than two inches high, with soft green needles, as defenseless as any small lifeform
left to the elements.
Usually cavalier and careless about ridding my garden of
any vegetation that doesn't belong there, I join most gardeners in the belief
that weeds are the Devil's spawn, ghoulish reminders that from primordial green
ooze we came and to the loamy land we shall return. The Sisyphean labor of
removing prolific rooted varmints does not generally incline me to mercy. Whoever
invents a commercial use for crabgrass, pigweed, buttercups, dandelions, groundsel,
chickweed, and their ilk will reap millions. (The same goes for dryer lint or
dust bunnies.)
This
day, however, something stayed my ruthless hand. What I was about to pull out
of the ground was undoubtedly a tree, and a non-deciduous one at that, its
"trunk" not much thicker than a toothpick. Frail, but a tree
regardless, I decided to spare it, if only out of curiosity. It flinched when I
pulled a tiny clover stem away from its base, and it seemed to stand more
securely when I firmed the soil around it with my fingers. My wife cut out the
bottom of a clear plastic cup and settled it around the youngster to protect it
from the elements and marauding cats.
We
adopted it.
After
a few months, the little volunteer looked like it could stand on its own so we
removed the plastic cup. It weathered our usual rainy winter and grew enough
the next spring and summer to reveal itself as an infant Douglas fir. After a
few years, it had branched well, and it asserted itself in its patch of earth
like a confident young boy with his arms crossed. More years passed and it
grew. And grew. But here the anthropomorphizing must stop. It was only a tree -
we thought.
In
the Pacific Northwest where we live, Douglas firs grow speedily and so prolifically that they're considered as weeds
themselves in some quarters. Still, we marveled as it grew straight and tall
and green over the years.
Then,
one fine morning, reality intruded. Our adoptee was immense and in the wrong
place, alongside our front stoop and buttoned in by a driveway and a retaining
wall, both of ancient vintage. As the tree had grown, the wall had begun to
bulge and finally to warp the siding of the house and the basement window and
door. Safety required its removal. Not the tree's fault, obviously. Ours. What to
do?
My
mind went back some years to another durable survivor of the Northwest, Supreme
Court Justice William O. Douglas of Yakima , Washington Douglas died in 1980 at age 82, mourned by liberals and civil libertarians
across the country, but never more so than by advocates in the increasingly
vocal environmental movement.
The Morton Case, decided in 1972, was a landmark case in
the early days of what is now the recognized field of environmental law. The
Sierra Club asserted that simply as an organization it had the right to
challenge the Interior Department's grant of a permit to build a ski resort in
In his famous dissent, Douglas asserted that persons and organizations should have the right to sue on
behalf of the very "inanimate object[s] despoiled, defaced, or invaded
where injury is the subject of public outrage."
Justice Douglas wrote,
"Inanimate
objects are sometimes parties in litigation [ships in maritime law,
corporations] .. So it should be as respects valleys, alpine meadows, rivers,
lakes, estuaries, beaches, ridges, groves of trees, swampland, or even the air
that feels the destructive pressures of modern technology and modern life. The
river, for example, is the living symbol of all the life it sustains and
nourishes - fish, aquatic insects, water ouzels, otter, fisher, deer, elk,
bear, and all other animals, including man, who are dependent on it or who
enjoy it for its sight, its sound, or its life. The river as plaintiff speaks
for the ecological unit of life that is part of it."
Critics scoffed. Developers were outraged. Rocks and
trees have rights? You have to be kidding! Some said he'd stayed too long,
ought to retire, in his dotage - which would have brought a smile to the face
of his pretty wife Cathy, 44 years his junior. In fact, Bill (as old friends
addressed him) was alert and bright and as hard-working as ever, continuing to
enjoy his beloved Cascade
Range and hanging out with
fishing and hiking buddies back home.
Opponents increased their call for Douglas ' retirement, or worse, impeachment. But environmentalists, successors
to Aldo Leopold, John Muir, and the like rejoiced. This was, to be sure,
ground-breaking territory even though a dissenting opinion.
Now, looking out of our second-floor bedroom window, I
steeled myself to saying goodbye to our beloved 45-foot tall Douglas fir. It was about to be cut down.
Trees are marvels of botany and physics. A tree is a
factory, a living factory, loading up on nutrients in the soil, transporting
them skyward through a vast circulatory system and mixing them with carbon
dioxide in the air and sunlight through the miracle of photosynthesis. Trees
produce leaves and needles, bear flowers or cones or fruit and thereby sustain
and recreate themselves. The hydrostatic pressure that keeps the smallest blade
of grass erect is multiplied enormously in a tree - tons of pressure, from bark
to branch to leaf or needle - to raise a massive, growing thing high into the
air and hold it there.
Out our window, beautiful long-needled branches, ends
tipped in emerald clusters and bearing bright chartreuse cones sticky with sap,
had long since grown up above the gutters and beyond. Each spring, new growth
on the nearest branch would beckon to come right into the room, Little Shop of Horrors-like, growing
noticeably closer year after year.
From far down the block, our tree was a visible landmark,
welcoming us home after a trip or serving as a reference point for first-time guests.
Its brittle, brown cones littered our lawn and walkway. Its lower branches had
to be trimmed annually to allow passage to the front door. At Christmas, I'd
string lights across its boughs and top them with a star. Our kids grew up and
moved away; neighbors came and went. Our tree stayed.
Now the fateful day had arrived. As I watched, oblivious branches
danced merrily in the wind. Or were they waving goodbye! Or were those pleas to
not do what the woodsman's axe had been summoned to do? Necessity governed our
decision, like regrettably eradicating a wasp's perfect nest hanging in the
wrong place. We'd weighed all alternatives and sadly reached the only
conclusion.
Neither my wife nor I wanted to be around while the
dismemberment took place. She left, but I stayed to keep an eye on the loggers.
When she came home several hours later, branches and logs were gone as we'd
specified, leaving empty ground and a level clean stump, and stray remnants of
sawdust here and there.
Part of the personality of our home of thirty years was
gone. The prospect of planting a more appropriate tree - say, a modest Japanese
maple - was little consolation. My wife and I didn't survey the scene for long.
We held hands and walked back in the house, quiet with our own thoughts.
What would Bill Douglas have done? As a son of the hard,
dry land of Eastern Washington Mount Adams
RIP, Bill Douglas. RIP, Douglas Fir.
A personal note. In late 1968, Justice Douglas graciously
agreed to swear me in as an attorney along with others I rounded up in Washington DC
