The Man Who Talked to Trees

"....I forgot how I happened to take my first geography course, but it was probably to fulfill a core curriculum science requirement. I was fascinated with Prof. Illick's manner of teaching, and geography became my minor. During one of our many fascinating field trips through the Vermont countryside, Dr. Illick told us about the significance of the New England hilltop farms. He explained they had been given out as bonuses to veterans after the American Revolution because they were considered the choicest farm sites.

In reality, the professor explained, they were among the poorest farms because, due to exposure and drainage, most of the good had been leached from their soils. The geography professor arranged a field trip to nearby Bristol, Vermont, to study a typical post-Revolutionary era hilltop farm, one that had been passed down for generations within the same family.

This farm was worked by the Harveys, a well-educated and intelligent family which had produced scores of prominent Vermonters. Just before we left, Prof. Illick told us, without elaborating, that our guide on this field trip, Mr. Harvey, spoke to his trees, regarding them as personal friends.

A group of us piled into my 1937 Chevy and other cars, and we made our way over mostly dirt roads to Bristol. We arrived at the Harvey farm only after climbing an almost impossibly steep dirt drive in low gear, and parked near the ancient farmhouse with its attached barn.

We were approached by Mr. Harvey, a bright, very likeable and intelligent University of Vermont graduate. His features were noble and refined, and he made me think of Longfellow's description of New Hampshire's Old Man of the Mountain. He greeted us cordially and showed us through his barn and milkhouse. All chores were still performed by hand, as in Revolutionary days, and there was no electricity.

While we were still in the barn, inquiring about the welfare of his farm animals, Mr. Harvey allowed that "Henry had complained of feeling badly lately" and we assumed that "Henry" might be a son or some farm animal.

Henry was an oak tree. We found that out when we emerged from the barn and Mr. Harvey, almost surreptitiously, put an arm around a large tree trunk and softly asked, "Are you feeling better, Henry?" From the farmyards, we crossed several extensive pastures and entered the sugar bush. This was a further reunion with friends. It seemed each maple had its own name, and Harvey assured us, its own personality. From here, it was a short walk to a forgotten ghost town, deep in the Vermont forest. The nearest road was miles away.

"You are now walking down the center of what was the main stage route from Middlebury to Burlington in the 1700s," he explained. It was hard for us to imagine. I, for one, expected to confront a bear at any moment.

"Here's the cellar hole of the tavern," he said. "Over there," he pointed to another depression in the ground, "was the hotel. Next to it was the blacksmith's smithy." The only sound was the whispering of a light breeze through the pines overhead. It was hard to believe this ghostly area had once hosted clattering stages and so much life and excitement.

As we made our way out of the forest and into the bordering pastures, heading back towards the farmhouse, our host paused by a large pine and patted it on its trunk. "Hello, Peter," he greeted.

A moment later, he did the same to an oak he called Michael. There was a nervous twitter from the group, but Harvey seemed not to notice. Hr. Harvey was talking to his trees.

Afterwards, I returned frequently to visit Mr. Harvey, for I was fond of this gentlemanly farmer who lived by himself on his remote mountaintop. I often brought dates from college, and Mr. Harvey would introduce us to his trees. He seemed to regard Henry, the oak who grew next to the barn, with special fondness.

Could Mr. Harvey really talk to his trees and pass messages back and forth? I rather think he may have...."

Source: Curt Norris, The Man Who Talked to Trees and More Strange New England Tales, Covered Bridge Press, North Attleborough, MA, 1996.