Lightbeats End

Years ago at the Baldwin farm my hay guy and I had just finished unloading a few hundred square bales of alfalfa into the loft. We were thirty feet from the barn, talking and catching our breath out in front of the big open doors. A storm had been percolating while we worked, so far no rain and only distant flashes. It came on suddenly—one moment leaning back against the wagon and then we were instantly in a gale, with the wind whipping high and the dark falling down around us. The little hairs on my arm stood up as I smelled a vibrant fresh, almost metallic odour. Lightning hit the rod on the rooftop, and I could actually hear the pulsing buzz of the currents as they touched down. The world turned brilliant white, starkly overexposed in a reddish haze. With the next crack came an assaulting wave of watery needles. We looked quickly at one another and hightailed it back to the farmhouse, as the storms fat warm drops fired wet dimples into our bare skin.

There was a lightning strike at the Cannington farm too, not the barn this time but on the big beautiful red maple to the west, beside the stream that only ever worked up to a gurgle all summer. The maple was okay—it survived, and so did the nesting kestrel family in the companion tree beside it. But that same crash and simultaneous red and white light was equally impressive as witnessing that first bolt reaching the barn roof peak.

One evening while visiting my Dad we were a short distance from yet another strike—I jumped up from my deck chair and screamed when the flash of light and crashing clatter hit in the same second. Fox was just over on the grass in the backyard and felt it on his skin, smelled the same charged air.

Heading back, as I got closer to home I noticed branches on the road through the village. It was dark, the light breeze swirling fogmist in the night, so I didn’t really see the fallen spruce until I was right up to it. It lay across the road, made it difficult to drive around. Then further along was another split, fallen tree. Upon seeing it I heard the distinct thought, “Lightning hit the farm”.

I sped up. Turning onto my concession, there were no signs of the storm except for wet gravel roads. No snapped strewn limbs laying about. Arriving home, there, leaning across the entrance was the splintered trunk of our enormous maple tree. Split torso angled across the driveway, splayed like the legs of a giraffe.

It was one of the tree-oh! trio trinity…one of three sentinel maples that had forever stood guard down by the road, shot down on duty. It’s head and long arms were still full with wet, leafy green offerings. Seemed so very peaceful, with massive trunk suspended midair—midfall—leaning against its mate, breathing its last woody breaths out there in the still night of afterain.

And so it stayed for a while. For days we presided over the fallen one, taking in its might and remembering the power of the lightbeat that ended it. Proceeding with care to honour an arbour hero seemed of far greater importance than the looming dangerous weight of the suspended timber. We took our time…paid our quiet respects…reflecting on just how to gently bring down dignity for our first boreal funereal.