There’s nothing more beautiful than a redbud tree in full bloom, but the name needs work. I advocate changing it to purplebud because the delicate, violet buds deepen to a majestic purple by mid-Spring. There’s nothing red about it.
I had a redbud in my yard until last week. I was seeing red last Wednesday when I noticed the tree hunched over in the yard, lifeless limbs hanging, clipping the soaked grass beneath it. The National Weather Service later confirmed an EF-1 tornado touched down about 15 miles south of my home in Lorain County.
About two years ago, I discovered evidence the tree was starting to rot. Careful pruning and Google-searched natural remedies made it thrive a while longer. But last week’s gusty winds were just enough to end its vibrant glory.
The storm arrived just days after I wrote a story for our newscasts detailing the differences between the number of tornadoes in Ohio this year compared to last. Data from the National Weather Service showed 23 tornadoes had touched down in Ohio up to that point, compared with 63 tornadoes during the same time period last year. Experts blamed instability in the atmosphere and the influence of the climate pattern El Niño as contributing factors in the 2024 numbers.
I never envisioned my own yard being part of the damage reports I reviewed. Even though my leaning, rotted redbud was barely considered damage, and losing a tree is nothing close to the devastation I've had to report, Mother Nature's impact did hit close to home.
Over the weekend, my recently retired father showed up, chainsaw in hand, with a strategy. I was immediately transported back into adolescent submission as my dad called out his plan to cut down the tree. A plan I knew from experience could not be modified.
“No, no, you put the large logs in the wheelbarrow”, he instructed, “then put the smaller branches into the back of my truck.”
My 40-something self channeled Jean Shepard’s ‘Ralphie’, holding the hubcap while his Old Man swiftly changed the tire in "A Christmas Story." I didn’t say “fudge” out loud, though my inner dialogue had a few choicer words.
The redbud came down in short order. My dad’s plan worked, and despite my internal “fudge” outbursts, the plan was flawless. I was grateful for the help.
A crater capable of holding infant-Superman’s capsule from Krypton laid ominously in the landscape. Now what?
A consultation with Martha Stewart’s Gardening Handbook and a cup of strong, black coffee motivated me to head to the nursery for a few silver willow shrubs to fill the hole where the redbud once stood.
The soggy weekend meant a short checkout line at the store. I quickly loaded up the willows, perfectly placed them in their new home (thanks Martha) and the job was done.
The willows are beautiful and will grow into the space nicely, but they’re no redbud. I’ll reserve my full opinion until next Spring, though I doubt the willows will spark the same seasonal excitement the redbud did.
If gardening has taught me anything, it’s patience. That’s the one thing keeping me from earning a green thumb.
