Ode to a cottonwood tree

The familiar cottonwood tree, genus Populus (the poplars)—the same genus as aspen trees, their well-known cool-climate cousins. Both trees have leaves with unusually shaped stems, flattened sideways so that they quiver in the wind … hence the name, “quaking aspen.” 

On my walk today, I remembered to notice them … I usually don’t.

Everyone knows that cottonwoods get their name from the little puffs of cotton that carry seeds on the wind in the spring. The piles of cotton against curbs and buildings and around the edges of puddles aren't always welcome. But on the other hand, a snowstorm of cotton in the late afternoon spring light is a lovely thing to behold. At least it is in my book, but then I’m not allergic to it, as some folks are.

Cottonwoods are one of the very few deciduous trees that are native in these parts. The plains were pretty much barren except for willows, cottonwoods, scrub brush, and prairie grass when white folks arrived. We’ve since planted a lot of trees—some useful, many just ornamental—and the cottonwoods just stand by. They grow along streambeds and around seasonal ponds, thriving in areas where most trees couldn’t survive. They grow tall and old, with huge trunks and complicated tangles of branches. They make great shade in summer and lovely snags for creatures when they die.

I pass them all the time, but I usually don't really see them. I walk by, thinking about other things, until one day, I get caught by remembering to pay attention to them, think about how grand they are. Some of the trees I see might be 100 years old or so. They may have seen the first settlement by non-native people in the areas where they now stand beside a busy bike path. They have been home to owls and squirrels, beetles and children’s swings, like this one I spotted. What a lot they must have witnessed in all those years.

I remember other cottonwoods from my childhood. I lived near an old irrigation ditch that was lined with them. I remember standing next to those trees when a neighborhood kid laughed at me when I flexed my muscles to show how tough I was. I threw him in the irrigation ditch.  

I also remember hearing about another neighborhood kid, someone I didn’t know, who died when he fell about 50 feet from high in the branches of a cottonwood.  

When I pay attention to these trees now, I get sort of pensive. I think about how long they’re been here, what changes have whirled around them, how silent and steadfast they are. I think about how trees like these were the only shade that folks living on the prairie had—think the eastern Colorado grasslands in August. I even think about the many creatures these trees have known: the woodpecker that nests in an old knot, the red tail hawk that perches on a tall branch looking for a mousie snack, the chipmunks that scurry around in the branches and up and down the trunk, the bugs that live under the bark and on the heart-shaped leaves.

What a complex story you could write about just one of these trees. And to think I forget to notice them most of the time.