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The Life of Herbie - New Ending

Story ID:8059
Written by:Michael Timothy Smith (bio, link, contact, other stories)
Story type:Story
Location:Yarmouth Maine USA
Year:2012
Person:Frank
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The Life of Herbie - New Ending

I posted this story a few years ago. It has a new and sad ending.


The Life of Herbie

1769, in Yarmouth, Maine – a seed from an elm tree, carried by a gentle breeze,
floated through the air and settled to the ground. Dry leaves quickly covered it. A warm rain
fell. The wet leaves stuck to the ground. Like a womb, they protected and nourished. Under
their cover, the tiny seed came to life. Small, vein-like roots reached into the earth and
sought nourishment. A delicate sprout pushed the protective leaves aside. Little leaves
unfolded and experienced sunshine for the first time. If a tree could smile, this fragile sprout
would have.

Years passed. The elm grew at a startling rate of three to six feet a year. As it grew,
so did its sense of awareness. The spreading branches acted like a satellite dish. They picked
up the signals from near-by trees. The number of elms grew. Each one communicated with
the others. They told of all they saw and experienced. There were times when the growing
elm was overwhelmed with information from the hundreds of elms that were planted along
the shaded streets of the expanding little town.

In 1780, the elm’s branches stretched thirty feet into the air. From this lofty height,
it sensed the presence of British ships as they sailed into the harbour. Men dressed in
uniform and carrying weapons came to shore. Under the elm’s shade, three Americans
discussed battle plans. The American Revolutionary War had come to Yarmouth.

Smoke drifted on the breeze. The elm tasted the bitterness of gunpowder for the
first time. That evening, as the sun sank below the horizon, a young American, badly
wounded, leaned against the elm’s trunk. The elm sensed his prayers, as the young man
died. His blood soaked the soil. The elm tasted death.

From 1790 to 1890, the normal chatter the tree picked up from the others
diminished. The elm watched more than three hundred ships, built from the bodies of
his brethren, sail out of the harbour and beyond the horizon.

The tree was almost one hundred years old, when a group of men rested in its shade.
They carried muskets as they travelled south into the battle. The American Civil War was
underway and the elm sensed death again.

The small town grew as did the elm. From 1914 to 1918, the elm saw ships, now
made of steel, patrol beyond the harbour. It sensed death beyond the waters, as men sailed
away to fight the first World War.

On December 7, 1941, a group of young men gathered under the shade of the now
mighty elm. The tree felt their excitement and fear.

“Japan bombed Pearl Harbour.” One said.

“I can’t believe it.” Another stated. “It looks like were going to war, men.”

The trees leaves hung limp in the still air – death was near again.

In the 1950’s, the elm towered close to one hundred feet tall. With so much
area, its sense-perception was at a peak. It sensed the communication of trees miles
away, and what it sensed caused fear. More death was on the horizon. It wasn’t man this
time. It was the elms, as Dutch elm disease spread across the United States, wiping out
millions of trees, leaving many small towns changed. Where once streets were lined
with elms, there were now stumps.

One morning, the tree felt the first signs of disease. It branches, which once sensed
all things, now seemed numb. It tried to communicate with the others, but only garbled
replies came in return. The elm knew it was sick.

Tree warden, Frank Knight, had the sad task of taking many of these trees down,
but when he looked up at this one towering giant, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He
knew it had stood sentinel over Yarmouth since before the Revolution. This one he would
try to save.

For fifty years, Mr. Knight carefully nursed the old elm. He sprayed for pests and
pruned diseased branches. One time, as they trimmed, a young girl asked, “What are you
doing to Herbie?”

“Herbie? Who’s Herbie?” One of the workers asked.

“The tree. He’s Herbie.”

The name stuck.

Herbie, although sick, always sensed Frank’s presence. Instead of the death Herbie
often felt throughout his lifetime, in Frank there was peace. It was a friendship between
man and tree.

Frank Knight is now 101 years old and has lost the battle. Herbie, estimated to be
close to 240 years old has to be brought down. For fifty years, Herbie’s sense-perception
dimmed steadily. Now there is blackness. His time has come.

He was scheduled to be brought down on January 18, 2010, but a snow storm
gave him a one day pardon. On the 19th of January, 2010, Maine lost a majestic, 110
foot king.

Herbie’s remains were turned into usable items and auctioned off. The proceeds
were used to plant disease resistant elms, which will once again grace the streets of
Yarmouth, Maine.

Footnote: On May 14, 2012, Frank Knight died at the age of 103. Frank Knight's decades-
long battle to save New England's tallest elm served as an inspiring tale of devotion, so it
is fitting that he will be laid to rest in a coffin made from the tree he made famous.

Rest in peace, Frank. You’re job in this world is done and done well.

When I read you were buried in a coffin made from Herbie’s wood, I cried.

Michael T. Smith