USA: When the cottonwoods blow
A poem, a storm, and the redefining of strength; plus 14 Questions (a two-for-oner edition)
Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows
Why he left his home in the South to roam ‘round the Pole, God only knows1
When I was 16, my family took a trip to visit some extended family in the Yukon Territory of northern Canada. Other teens might have spent their souvenir money on a t-shirt or just blown it on junk food. I spent my precious dollars on a paperback book of poetry entitled Songs of a Sourdough, first published in 1907. Go figure. In addition to the Yukon’s truly epic2 scenery, I had fallen in love with the work of the “Bard of the Yukon,” a British-born, Scottish-raised poet by the name of Robert W. Service.3
On the flight back home, I began memorizing one of his best-known ballads, “The Cremation of Sam McGee.”4 I later competed with that macabre, yet also oddly humorous piece at speech competitions.
Other than that influential trip in my teen years, I’ve never returned to the Yukon. But someday—hopefully next summer—I will stand atop Walter, our big yellow truck, and recite “Sam McGee” and verses of other assorted Service poems into the vast open spaces of the Yukon wilderness. It will be my little way of giving back to the place that gave so much to me, so many years ago.
Until only recently, I assumed the phrase “where the cotton blooms and blows” referred to growing cotton, that ubiquitous southern cash crop. This summer, though, as we have camped on a friend’s property surrounded by cottonwood trees, I had a McEpiphany. Cotton growing on the bushy plant doesn’t blow. At the time of Mr. Service, it had to be laboriously hand-picked (which, of course, played a major role in the darkest period of United States history).
Blowing cotton is clearly a reference to cottonwood trees, whose seed pods float in the breeze, encased by a fluffy white puff that comes down so prolifically that, at the peak of its season, it resembles snow.
If you were in Montana’s Missoula County or northern Ravalli County this past Wednesday evening, you witnessed the blowing of the cottonwood trees taken to a whole new level.
The Storm of the Decade
Thunder boomed and lightning flashed and crackled—too close together, too close to us. Fat drops of rain fell in sheets, coming from every direction as the wind swirled.
Like the sound of several strings of firecrackers ignited all at once, the plasticky-vinyl fabric of various tarps snapped and flapped violently away from my hands, as if they were desperate to flee from the weights I was using to try to secure them. When rocks the size of lumpy grapefruits weren’t enough, I piled our folding bicycles, zipped into their fabric carry cases, on top of one tarp to keep it from blowing away, then watched as a gust blew one of those bikes right back off. Andy ran to help and muscled one of Walter’s enormous spare tires onto the pile. Finally, that was enough.
Between the noisy tarps and the howling of the wind—which ravaged the trees like a vengeful band of banshees—plus the snapping of tree branches, my ears were useless. I realized either my husband or Megan, the property owner, might be yelling out instructions for what needed immediate attention or warnings of falling or flying objects, but there was no way to hear anything beyond my corner of the yard.
My eyes squinted into the fading light against the billowing dust and debris in the air. I was grateful for the layer of protection my glasses provided, but they were so splattered with rain drops I could hardly see out of them.
Because the residents of the property where we are currently camping haven’t yet built a home, all of us are just camping in an eclectic assortment of vehicles—two travel trailers, a Sprinter van, and Walter, our big yellow truck. Piles of plastic tubs and belongings poorly protected by flimsy tarps are the norm here for all of us.
CR—AACK! BOOM! More thunder and lightning.
Peering into the semi-darkness across the yard, I could see Megan’s pop-up canopy had toppled over, the last bits of the canvas top thrashing about like shredded white flags. But we were not about to surrender. Megan and I ran toward it, but she stopped short just as the silhouette of something flying crossed through my very limited periphery.
“OWW! Whoa! I just got hit in the stomach by a branch!” She paused only for a moment, startled by the impact. “That’s gonna leave a bruise.”
“You ok?” I yelled.
“Yeah. I’ve just never been hit with a flying branch before.”
There was too much to do, too fast, too loud, too chaotic. We had no time to stop for cottonwood branches to the gut. Larger tree limbs were snapping. One big chunk of a nearby tree landed only centimeters from the hand pump for the well, the property’s only source of water.
Megan yelled that she wanted to move the Sprinter van away from the trees. She hopped in and began to back the van into the tall weeds while I motioned with hand signals she probably couldn’t even see.
Andy, likewise, decided to move Walter, who was parked next to Maeve’s Grove, normally a lovely and lush cluster of middle-aged cottonwoods, now swinging and waving ominously. He searched for the car keys. I ran to start moving tools and materials away from the ground around the wheels. As I approached the truck, though, a huge gust of wind—significantly stronger than what we had already been experiencing—roared out of the west. I looked up to see the thick-trunked cottonwood trees looming over Walter and me like supple coconut palms.
Nope.
Convinced they were coming down immediately and would crush Walter beneath them, I sprinted the opposite direction, toward the wide-open center of the property, hoping Andy would manage to escape in time, too. When I thought I might be far enough away to avoid the worst of the crash, I looked up again. Freakin’ frackin’ frick! I was directly under the power lines instead!
Fortunately, the worst of the wind—which we later learned had measured the same as a Category 1 hurricane—eventually lost its fury. The mighty trees, at least the ones surrounding us, stayed rooted to the earth. The next morning, daylight allowed us to better assess the damage: some broken glass, busted patio chairs, some trim on the roof of one trailer, and lots of branches to clean up. It was a mess, but not too bad, compared to some of the neighboring properties.
The thing with cottonwoods
Being married to a furniture maker for so many years, I know a little about lumber. In Andy’s shop, I saw plenty of maple, walnut, and cherry. But cottonwood? No. Never. It’s not rigid. It holds too much moisture. Compared to hickory or mahogany or ash, cottonwood is soft.
And soft means weak, right?
And weak means worthless, right?
One good look at American culture these days might lead a person to believe these things.
But wait. Is strength only measured by rigidity?
So, I did a little research.5
I learned quite a bit about cottonwood trees.
They’re ubiquitous in North America, prevalent from Sam McGee’s homeland of Tennessee to our high mountain valley in Montana, north into Canada and south into Mexico.
Indigenous people have used the tender inner layer of bark and sticky sap of new growth for medicinal purposes and even food for millennia.
More than half of Montana’s bird population, as well as most of the large mammals, seek out cottonwood trees for shelter and shade.
Lewis and Clark learned to use giant cottonwood trunks for dugout canoes like the ingenious indigenous people they met, since the soft wood is so easy to carve.
Marcus Daly, the Montana copper baron, planted cottonwoods up and down the Bitterroot Valley as fast-growing shade trees, since young cottonwoods can grow 10-15 feet in a single year and a mature tree is as wide as it is tall.
Riverbanks benefit from cottonwoods, which thrive in their wet, sandy soil—even when submerged in seasonal floods—and thus help stabilize the banks.
No, cottonwoods are not rigid, and they will never be used to make a fine dining room table and chairs, but they’re not worthless, either. They just express their strength in different ways.
Meteorologists say that last week’s storm was a once in a decade storm. The larger cottonwoods of Maeve’s Grove, next to where Walter is usually parked, are approximately 40-50 years old, if their circumference is an accurate indicator.6 That means, on average, these trees may have already survived several such storms.
Mature cottonwood trees live to be well over a hundred years old. The venerable giants of the species in this local area have perhaps withstood a dozen storms as bad or worse than the one we had last week. If they aren’t rigid and they crack and shed their branches so easily, how do they manage to live so long?
I have a theory. (Of course, I do, haha.) What if a cottonwood’s willingness to self-prune, to shed small branches in order to lighten the load of the entire tree and ensure its survival is actually its superpower? What if cottonwoods have just mastered the art of letting go?
What if another way to measure strength is by flexibility, the ability to bend without breaking, the ability to shed good things in order to preserve great things? What if value is defined not by a narrow definition of usefulness for one particular application, like fine furniture, but in broader, less-measured traits like the ability to provide nourishment, shelter, protection, and healing?
The lovely cottonwood will never be a mighty oak tree. But that’s ok. It was never meant to be one.
14 Questions (2 x 7!)
My guests this week are Mary Jo Ginther-Wehrle and Brennan Wehrle, a dynamic mother/son travel duo Andy and I met back in February on a slow, spartan, and very crowded two-day boat ride down the Mekong River in Laos.
It was not deluxe travel, and there was nothing to do but stare out the open-air windows, nap, read a book, or talk to fellow passengers. Turns out, two days of nothing other than those four options is not a bad thing at all. When you have people like Mary Jo and Brennan around—long-term travelers with loads of stories—the time doesn’t pass slowly enough.
We loved our conversations with them both, and thoroughly enjoyed the further time we spent with them in the Laotian city of Luang Prabang, where we both stayed for several days after the boat trip. Here’s a link to a video Andy made of the four of us, plus several others, celebrating a birthday with dinner and a crazy trip to a Laotian bowling alley.
Like mighty cottonwood trees, Mary Jo and Brennan have learned to let go of so many good things, so they can do a great thing—travel the world together for two-plus years. But they have a lot to say, so I will let them speak for themselves. Without further ado, here are my friends, Mary Jo and Brennan:
Where were you born and where do you live now?
MJ: I was born in East Chicago, Indiana, a steel mill industrial town southeast of Chicago. I now live in San Diego, California, having lived in and out of that state since 1982. Since September of 2022, I’ve “lived” in 44 countries, from the Caribbean down to South America, over to Africa, up to Europe, then Turkey, Egypt, UAE and Jordan. We went through India and Sri Lanka, SE Asia, Australia, and New Zealand. We are currently “living” in Indonesia and plan to head north to Hong Kong, Taiwan, China, South Korea, and Japan before a final stop in Hawaii. Then it’s back to the good ol’ USA after almost two and a half years!
B: I was born Sacramento, California, then grew up in Palm Desert, CA, about two hours east of Los Angeles. Right now, I don't have a place of my own since I've been on the road for the last two years, but I've lived in San Diego since 2015 and it's what I consider to be home.
Of all the names and titles you have answered to over the years, do you have any favorites, and why?
MJ: Mom, of course. No job ever compares to what you receive in return for what you put in. Careers begin and end, but my family has been an endless source of happiness for me, and it’s a title I’m proud to carry. But in terms of work, I loved directing the tourism efforts for the City of Palm Springs, California. That city is on fire when it comes to being an ultimate cool destination in the California desert. It was so fun to be a part of branding and promoting the city, and to see how well it’s doing; it really was worth the effort.
B: When I'm out sailing with friends, I think my favorite title is Captain. It reminds me that when you're in a position of responsibility (like keeping people safe and the boat above water), your biggest asset is organizing the people around you. You may be able to sail in calm weather on your own, but once an emergency hits you need everyone to be on the same page and work together. Being trusted to lead that process is why I like the Captain title so much. Personally though, my high school friends called me Birdman for my long limbs and the fact that I skateboarded, since Tony Hawk's nickname was also The Birdman. I've always liked that one.
Can you tell me about one person who has had a significant positive impact on your life?
MJ: Maybe this is cliche, but I have to say my mom. She and I were close when she was alive; we did lots of traveling together. She was super smart, independent, funny, and loved me and my kids like crazy. She was always happy to see us and lent a listening ear and good advice when I asked for it. She adored my father (so did I), and I find myself calling back to her examples and conversations when I need direction, even though she’s not here anymore. I wish she was because I still miss her.
B: My community college accounting professor, Jim Sugden! This man was kind, humble, smart, and had a drive to help kids achieve more than they feel capable of. While I was there, he started the school’s Entrepreneurship Society, just a group of current and former students that had an interest in starting their own businesses. Most of us were 18-20 years old with no experience to speak of, but he never backed down from teaching us the ins and outs, and treating us like equals all the while. That was where I saw that one person's efforts had such a large impact. Out of that program there came multiple successful companies, but also hundreds of students with expanded capabilities and worldviews.
What feels most like home to you and why?
MJ: I’ve lived in 15 cities throughout the U.S., but San Diego was always my happy place. I could escape to a warm beach and ocean air with just a weekend off. I feel very lucky that I got to retire and move to a place that I enjoy being—at least whenever I’m there, haha.
B: When I'm in a small town or an island near the water and you're able to see the same friendly faces each day and develop a rapport. Mix that with something that I love to do like surfing or diving and I'm at my best, most relaxed self. That feeling of walking with your chin up like there's nothing that can't be done is unbeatable. That feeling is what home feels like to me.
What is one thing that makes you ridiculously happy?
MJ: Laying on a beach with fine sand and warm water. Thanksgiving Day, cooking dinner. Being out on any kind of boat on a clear, warm day. Seeing my kids get off the plane. A wonderful glass of wine or champagne. Every time I realize I am still traveling the world with my son and understand how easily this opportunity might have been missed.
B: Seeing the self-actualization of others. When someone is able to put aside the doubts that they had about their own ability or worthiness and go on to do the things that they've dreamed of, that person is forever changed for the better. They've come to their own conclusions about what is best for them, and you know that they'll never box themselves in again. Seeing the change that makes in people is incredibly moving and is the thing that makes me the happiest.
What is one thing that makes you terribly sad?
MJ: That my dad never got to know his grandchildren. That some of my sisters betrayed our family.
B: Environmental degradation. I was reading recently about how natural resources should be looked at as a store of future prosperity. The rate that we're cutting forests, burning fossil fuels, and polluting waterways now is directly exchanging short-term gains for the well-being of future generations. I'm a participant in it too; the amount of fuel being used on our world trip is ungodly. I feel like we know that something big needs to be done, but it's all too easy to rationalize our own decisions and give reasons why we shouldn't change.
What is one important thing you have learned over your lifetime?
MJ: Relationships are earned; they aren’t a given right. They can’t be expected to work when they are misused.
B: Comparison is the thief of joy.
Finally, I asked them each to provide me a photo of their choice and they sent me these, both of them looking very much in their elements:
Thanks, Mary Jo. Thanks, Brennan. I do hope our paths cross again. Both of you are quality human beings and Andy and I are both so glad we met.
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.— Joyce Kilmer
Be flexible, friend. Shed the hindrances that so easily entangle you. Value the unique strengths of yourself and others. Take a lesson from the cottonwood—and from Mary Jo and Brennan.
Until next week,
Sherry
Excerpt from “The Cremation of Sam McGee” by Robert W. Service
Ask my kids: something should not be described as ‘epic’ unless it is worthy of a long, narrative poem. The Yukon meets the requirements and Robert Service fulfilled them.
Some of Service’s work has not aged well, as he often used terms that would now be considered ethnic slurs.
Yes, I memorized the whole thing and still know it. It is long, but here’s the chorus as a teaser:
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
My brother, Jim, is famous for starting conversations with the words, “So, I did a little research.” It’s a family trait.
Here is a link to a handy tool for estimating the age of a living tree from The Forest Guild.
I would say the coconut tree is a fine example of bending not breaking 😂🥰
I once recited Bessie's Boil (Robert Service) for my English class for extra credit. The teacher reported me to the school counselor who then called me in for a little discussion on what constitutes acceptable poetry for class recitations. Bummer!