Gradually, Then Suddenly
The tale of the cherry tree that was always going to fall on the studio.
So much to report. Your patience in reading through the facts will be rewarded with a written story and a special read aloud at the end of me sharing some of the messages from The Ruins Beehive Artists.
I wake up this morning post-movie premiere night. We made the journey into Pittsburgh, along with one hundred guests to watch the first screening of the Robert Tinnell documentary about The Ruins. The historic Pump House was full. The energy was fantastic. Thank you to all who attended and thank you to Rivers of Steel for hosting and organizing. I think that is what makes little movies successful. The buzz around them. Ruins lovers were buzzing last night! For those who missed being there, we will be organizing three more screenings in the coming months. One in Brownsville, one in Ohio Pyle. And amazingly, one in the actual Ruins!
You may have missed opening your usual Wednesday email of The Ruins Newsletter. I genuinely love being on schedule for the writing. It’s my regular rendezvous with you.
But this week, a tree fell on us. Read that story below.
The Ruins Beehive Reveal Event will be on May 1st at 2PM EST hosted by Mosaic Arts Online. Use the link provided to attend. You will definitely want to schedule this one into your calendar. It will include video of the install in progress, an introduction and short demo of using the big gun from Laticrete, the final video of all the arrived beehives with me commenting, and a special honey tasting with the beekeeper of Sonny Rose Ranch and my mother, Sherry Sager, who has the best palate in the family.
The cherry tree was always going to fall on the studio.
I knew it from the first time I looked up at it all those years ago. An eighty-footer that my arms might not meet with a hug, balanced towards the edge of what we call The Plateau, up behind the studio. Far enough away and spindly, like wild cherry trees can be, I forgot to take it seriously.
Different than the overly obvious problem children like the dead ash. Or the towering and leaning pines that we have made careful plans to take down pro-actively. The cherry tree was just far enough away to make it a sleeper kind of problem tree.
Those are the ones that get you. The ones you don’t see coming.
We had just put the birds to bed after a long day of chicken hierarchy chaos. If you remember the teacup hen and her silent campaign of stubborn broodiness, you will be pleased to know that she now has four beautiful chicks. Read to the end for a stress relieving video (inside The Hammer Portal) of her teaching them to forage. But new life has a way of upsetting the status quo. Our lone rooster, a sleek and colorful Black Copper Marans from Alchemist Farm who has been refreshingly, charmingly gentle, has gone rogue. The high-pitched chirps of the new peeps already had him doing a Mick Jagger strut but when I made the move to transfer mama and babies to a new coop with a safe, outdoor run, he lost his cool. I now have at least six strategically placed sticks, rakes, and anything that can be used as protective shields or long items to bash him on the head with when he comes at me. Rooster attacks are real.
But back to the tree.
It was almost full dark by the time we got all the moving parts of our obstinate chicken world to bed. Ordell headed to the basement to watch tv. I collapsed into my writing chair upstairs to catch up on Ruins Beehive postings. Within minutes we both heard what sounded like a train barreling through on our side of the river. A fast, scary kind of wind that you can feel in your belly is going to be trouble. And then something much louder.
There was no crack. Just an undefined loudness. The full picture would not be revealed until the light of morning. We could see the outlines of the tree with our flashlights and followed it up and up onto The Plateau, so we knew it was the cherry tree. The rain was coming down hard and horizontal. We rushed into the studio and that’s when I started to cry. Panic took over. Not just that we were two days away from opening for the season, but for a more nebulous kind of loss. My emotional attachment to our little shed roof building came raring to the surface. Four holes dripping water from the force of four branches, poking through the ceiling. From a falling tree’s perspective, metal, wood, and insulation are tissue paper.
Gravity, speed, weight, sharpness. It had been working up the recipe to fall for years. Age, the too-soaked ground. And then the literal perfect storm.
Gradually, then suddenly.
The Revelator was hanging crooked. Dozens of smaller mosaics had fallen off the walls. It shook the bones of the studio. I am still finding fallen earrings.
When our tree man finally arrived mid-afternoon the next day, I cried again, with relief this time. He has taken down some of our most difficult trees in The Ruins, and has the kind of calm, “I’ve been doing this my whole life, ma’am”, energy that a tree man should have. It will be a tricky removal. The combination of the large size of the trunk, the vertical hillside directly behind the studio and the way it’s laying on the roof make it like tree removal chess. Solving it will involve looking three steps ahead.
Living under the environment of a large fallen tree is all-consuming for the people in it. The top branches, just beginning to blossom, now brush our faces. Cherry blossom season has taken on a new meaning. There are cherry blossoms hanging over the porch. Cherry blossoms shading the chicken coops. Cherry blossoms between the cracks of the floorboards. The tree is all we can see.
It could have been much, much worse. Joe Brown Tree Service out of Connellsville, says that if it had cracked instead of unearthed, the studio, and its art, would have been truly destroyed. The root ball acted as an anchor to the ground and made the tree bounce at just the right level to not crush it all. Even so, it is proving to be a delicate, almost surgical removal. The first day of tackling the smaller branches was complete yesterday. The big crane will be brought in on Monday to gently lift pieces of the main trunk off the roof without causing further damage. Joe has told me he may have to be “astride” the trunk to cut it while the crane lifts. Someone needs to make a documentary about this guy. Sixty-five and still climbing.
Ernest Hemingway coined the term, gradually, then suddenly and I am fascinated by its implications. I believe he was describing the bankruptcy of one of his characters. But it works for so many things. A heart attack builds in the body gradually, then suddenly. What else can the phrase describe? The quick motions of violence. The build up to a fight with your mate. An overnight success. The writing of a book. The hatching of a chicken.
And most definitely, the falling of a cherry tree.
Now, please enjoy eight minutes of me reading aloud some of the gorgeous handwritten notes that accompanied The Ruins Beehive triptych arrivals this month.
Thank you for being here as I keep digging for optimism. Some days with a hammer. Some days with a shovel. And some days with a pen.
Rachel, This is gut wrenching! I am so sorry this happened to your slice of heaven😢. But great timing for The Ruins Documentary premiere! A wonderful reminder of what your vision, talent, and energy has created for the world to enjoy. With time, the tree will just be another challenge along the way. And, you are the master of overcoming them! Nancy💕
Dear Rachel and Ordell. So sorry to hear about your studio being crushed like this. So glad you are both ok, as well as the Revelator! And the wee beautiful chick's too. Marion's poem is very sweet..maybe there will be a time when you come over here. I couldn't help think of you when I visited Siccar Point last week! https://www.geolsoc.org.uk/GeositesSiccarPoint