It’s hard to say if a hummingbird is mourning just by the look on its face, but I think the hummers in my yard this spring are sad about the changes in their neighborhood.
That’s because their favorite resting spot, the old purple cherry plum tree in my yard, is gone. It blew down on one of those blustery days in late April, just before the hummers got back in town.
That tree was my favorite of all the trees in my yard. It was the earliest to sport fragrant blossoms in the spring. Its purple leaves provided an eye-catching diversion from the surrounding greenery all summer long.
And best of all, framed perfectly in the window where I drink my morning coffee, it had one bare branch that was a favorite resting spot for hummingbirds all through the summer.
I suppose that bare branch should have been a warning to me that the tree wouldn’t be standing much longer. After all, I planted it twenty years ago, and two decades is about the longest you can expect a cherry plum tree to live, according to sources like the University of Redlands. Other sources, such as St. Lawrence Nurseries, sell them with the caution that they may only live ten to fifteen years.
So when my favorite tree toppled at twenty years old, I guess you could say it had been living on borrowed time. It was originally part of a pair, but its partner tree shuffled off to the cordwood pile about ten years ago.
I have been trimming off dead branches from it for the past several years, trying to keep it healthy, but it had long ago taken on the pathetic look of a Charlie Brown Christmas tree.
Still, it was my favorite tree in the yard, not least of which because of that one dead branch, the favorite resting spot of all the hustling, bustling hummingbirds in the ‘hood. It was because of that one branch that I lingered long over my morning coffee, watching a perching hummer scope out the landscape, defending her territory against rival hummers before dashing off for another sip of nectar from every feeder or flower on the block.
But now, alas, after gracing my yard for the past twenty years, that beautiful old purple cherry tree is gone. I hand-trimmed the fallen trunk down to a manageable length, then my son came over with his chain saw to turn it into lovingly useful logs for his backyard firepit.
And then I toasted it a fond farewell and drizzled a bit of my Jameson’s on its gnarled roots. Ah, my old friend, may ye find your way to heaven a half hour before the devil knows ye’re gone.
The hummers returned to town a week or so later, about the same time as usual, but I think they miss their old friend as much as I do. Maybe more. As I say, it’s hard to say if a hummingbird is mourning just by the look on its face, but they seem a bit befuddled.
When they leave the feeder hanging outside my window, they head west, straight for the spot where that old bare branch stood fifteen feet off the ground, and then they swing south, to the tippy top of the tall oaks at the back of my yard. It may be that they sit up there scanning the landscape, searching for wherever their old cherry plum perch pal might have wandered off to.
It’s a sad thing to watch.
Still, all hope is not lost, because at the gnarled base right at ground level where that old tree broke, there is a “sucker” stem arching skyward from the root. About as thick as a pencil, it already rises almost up to my chin. Halfway up, three or four thin branches reach out from the main stem, all of them covered by those beautiful purple leaves, interspersed by a dozen or so fragrant blossoms.
Is it possible? Could a new, healthy tree grow where my old tree fell?
I fired up Mama Google to see if there was any chance, and the Birds & Blooms site tells me, yes, there’s an excellent chance of that happening. In fact, because the little stem already has a large, well-established root system, it will likely grow much faster than any new tree I might plant. The mature root will spend all its energy feeding that tiny shoot, rather than laboring to keep an old tree alive, the article says.
Alongside that article is a photo showing a lady tending to a tiny tree with a stem about as thick as a pencil, rising up almost to her chin. The article explains that the tiny stem is a sucker growing from the roots of a fallen tree.
Next to that photo is another taken 14 months later, where she stands in the same spot beside a tree whose trunk is as thick as her wrist. It towers more than ten feet over her head.
So maybe that’s not mourning I see on the faces of the hummingbirds in my yard as they dash west and then swoop south right at the spot where their old resting place once stood.
Maybe it’s hope that I see in their eyes.
The same look they see on my face when they watch me drink my morning coffee through the window.
TR Kerth is the author of the book “Revenge of the Sardines.” Contact him at trkerth@yahoo.com.
