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  Markham Moments

Markham Moments aims to provide snapshots about life experiences in the Town of Markham that also have some timeless or universal aspect to them. Please check back periodically for our updates! Content is by Bob Fisher, a freelance writer living in Markham, Ontario.


Where There’s A Willow There’s A Way
by Bob Fisher, December 1, 2002

Death, taxes, and change. I wonder why they never mention that third inevitability? In a rapidly evolving community like Markham, change is certainly the norm, although a mixed blessing. The radiating urbanization that is both process and by-product of this town’s robust economy has brought jobs, dynamic multiculturalism, and national prestige. At the axis of major provincial transportation routes and yet still comfortably removed from the core of Megalopolis, Markham is smack dab in the middle of a good time in the twenty-first century.

However, if you are still commuting to Canada’s financial capital to the south or experiencing the environmental shift wrought by the nation’s biggest cross-town toll road (young male foxes travelling in pairs moved into our neighbourhood and began taking cats and squirrels) you will be encountering some of the costs of change. And while small and medium-sized businesses especially look with great expectations to the exponential growth of new housing developments that — amoeba-like — are filling in the rural spaces, many in this town are starting to fear community congestive heart failure, not to mention the rush of humanity to the pastoral heartland of Ontario.

But what are we to do? Change is inevitable right? It means growth and prosperity doesn’t it? Is not change the handmaiden to history? But what about constancy, continuity, and endurance?

Which brings me to our willow tree ...


It stood for 40+ years in the south-west corner of our backyard. Planted by the original owners of our house, the tree must have seemed a good idea at the time; time and space were vague considerations. And it certainly has served our local environment well. I imagine young kids 20 years ago rejoicing among its adolescent branches. Can you name a better climbing tree? A better venue for flights of fancy? And in addition to its natural climate control, its extensive root system helped absorb the vestigial stream that flows through our hostas and around the boxwood on its way to Milne Park and the Rouge. Furthermore, our willow was home to a multitude of species: squirrels, raccoons, birds of all kinds, and a favourite of bees and other species of insects. Salix babylonica is a tree among trees. A European species, it was cultivated for centuries as far back as ancient Rome and Greece, and it is a pioneer in most North American communities. And willow wood has been used for such things as paper pulp, boxes, crates, artificial limbs, wooden shoes, cricket bats, and the weaving and crafting of rustic furniture. As First Nations people discovered, willow bark contains the active compound salicin, a derivative of salicylic acid. Our willow tree was one enormous Aspirin-machine. It also became a major headache.

If trees have a gender, ours would have been female. But not just any female — an Empress! Seen from the street, she reigned over the neighbourhood in all her imperial arborescence. At her zenith, she reached over 20 metres (70 feet). In indulgent summer breezes her long graceful branches swayed and danced; she was replete with flowing motion. Twyla Tharp or Isadora Duncan could have learned a thing or two from our willow. But in rougher weather, she was a tree who demanded respect. Defying other forces of nature, she could, when perturbed, thrash about angrily and drop a limb or two as proof of her power. And she constantly reminded us of her presence by filling up our eavestroughs with her cast-offs. However when she discarded a larger limb on the neighbour’s tool shed, we knew the Empress had to go.

But to dispatch the willow was to remove a bit of local history, excise a large chunk from our skyline, commit an act of neighbourhood deforestation. It meant negating someone’s horticultural vision. But death, taxes, and change... what is one to do?


And so we set off in search of an agent of our villainy and found Iain, a thoroughly modern businessman and arborist. (His website told us everything we needed to know about such matters.) He came, he saw, he dismembered. But he did it with the greatest of respect and care, an amazing feat of dexterity and precision. It was like having a private Cirque de Soleil in our own backyard. One by one, the massive limbs came down. And then there were none. And soon the metre-wide stump was also ground into sawdust. Time marched on.

Come Spring, we think we might plant a tree.

(You can visit Iain’s website at http://www.uppercanadatree.ca/.)