I was a pre-teen vandal. Mr. Hutchins, the ol’ grouch that lived next door barked so loud I almost fell from my perch thirty feet up as I was carving something onto a beech tree with the pocket knife my dad gave me. My first attempt to carve on a tree, but on his tree, as it turned out. Right on the property line! How was I supposed to know? You can be sure I raked half the damned leaves from that tree every fall. Mr. Hutchins was very upset. Such a scolding I got; you’d think I tied up his dog, shaved it, and painted it pink. Pepto Bismol Pink! Today, I would say he overreacted a bit, but at ten years old, I felt pretty darned guilty. Felt so bad that I knew that I had carved my last arborglyph – a practice by humans that’s been going on for centuries, thus a Greek word for it, I suppose.

I assume that the tree still exists; it was so well protected by Mr. Hutchins. He is long gone, I’m sure. But no reason for the tree to be gone. East Weymouth, Massachusetts is a bit of a hike from my home in Jersey. Next time I visit nearby Nantasket Beach (see Ghosts of Paragon Park gallery), I’ll drop by and see if the folks there will let me take some pictures of the now old-timer. Maybe find evidence that I was indeed a vandal and that this story is not just in my head.

A few close-ups taken Brookdale Park.

Tap on the image below to see the second image.

Then read on.

Many of the photos included in the updated Trees, Dead or Alive gallery are of seemingly healthy beech trees within a grove in nearby Brookdale Park. I’m bewitched by the older trees, miraculously hanging on by their Xylem and Phloem. So thoroughly scarred by carvings, A.K.A. arborglyphs (tree graffiti, really), that one reprieve is that there’s hardly room for more. Surrounded by its disfigured neighbors, first up in the gallery is a dead one - for a well-deserved picture sendoff.

“Game of Thrones” characters after an epic battle come to mind when I look at the trunks.

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I’ve named one of the beeches in the park “Ned Stark” (it was recently cut down). Another in the grove I call “Little Finger” (for the shape of the branches, not that it’s evil). Even the word “arborglyph”, a charitable term a conservationist might use for such an assault by pocketknife, has a Seven Kingdoms scoundrel ring to it. Safe to assume that these trees aren’t thrilled about being an archive of “I was here” markings.

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