Supple Sycamores

Gracefully arching high over my outdoor tub are two huge sycamore trees, which I often find myself gazing contentedly into during my soaks. One is a quadruple-trunked majestic tree, whose trunks spread outward from each other, creating a massive arboreal umbrella that dwarfs me. A sycamore’s thick branches arch gracefully, reaching across the sky, seeking to grab the most sunlight possible. These trees prefer wet feet, so our resident sycamores cuddle up to the creek that runs by the house. They line the banks of the nearby Shenandoah River, like giant sentinels guarding the waterway.

In mid-late summer the sycamore tree has a singular habit: shedding thin strips of bark from its higher branches. The pieces of fallen bark are several inches long and curl themselves up like delicate banana peels. They strip themselves off from the branches and trunk, falling to the ground like noisy leaves in the fall. Their departure unveils a very smooth, cream-colored bark. No other tree has the appearance of the sycamore, with its off-white arms reaching out across the yard. On full-moonlit nights the branches appear a ghostly white, causing the tree to stand out dramatically from its dark background. And as the sun sets, its final rays will light up the sycamore’s trunk and branches in a brilliant golden glow. 

My first introduction to the beauty of the sycamore tree was when I lived in Boston nearly 40 years ago. My next-door neighbor was blessed with a gigantic sycamore that sat in the center of his backyard and presided over the entirety of his spacious grounds. It was positively statuesque, and I was in awe. I once complimented him on the tree’s magnificence, to have his face turn rather sour, as he described how he disliked it because it littered his otherwise tidy backyard lawn with those damnable bark shreds. Oops! Lesson learned: the possessor of what I might regard as a thing of beauty doesn’t always appreciate the burden of stewardship.

But my appreciation for the charm of the sycamore remained undaunted. A few years later I found myself living in a sweet, small house in Arlington, Virginia. Built in the midst of the Great Depression, this house possessed an integrity and quality I’d never before experienced. It had a major drawback, however: a huge, west-facing window on the front of the house invited the hot afternoon sun to pour its radiation inside. It got very hot in the living room in July and August. I longed for a shade tree in the front yard that would cool the house. A little investigation told me that sycamores are also a fast-growing tree, so I was sold. I bought one and planted it ‘twixt the window and the setting sun. Before it had a chance to mature, however, I left Arlington and moved out here in the woods.

A few years later I drove through the old Arlington neighborhood and was struck by the gorgeous, large sycamore tree that now shaded the entire front of my former home. It was approaching the majestic stature of my Boston neighbor’s backyard sycamore. I felt an urge to knock on the door and introduce myself as the former owner who had planted that wonderful tree, and inquire about their appreciation of its cooling, shading qualities. Remembering my Boston neighbor’s aversion to his sycamore, however, I remained in the car—briefly admiring the tree, before driving on.