Man’s world

In which our strong, not-so-silent Southern man contemplates the social lives of trees and (quietly) wonders if he’s up to that much conversation.

It’s finally happened. Joe Bennett starts talking to trees.

“

I’m planting my own little bit of bush,” I said.

“Did you know,” she said, “that trees communicate with each other through their roots?”

“I did not,” I said.

“And did you know,” she said, “that trees are compassionate creatures? They help each other out.” “How do you know these things?” “My scientist son tells me,” she said, “and who am I to argue with a scientist son? Apparently when one tree is feeling under the weather – though I acknowledge that is not perhaps the best choice of metaphor what with all trees being literally and perpetually under the weather – other trees will reach out to it with their little roots and feed it nutriments, in the manner of a nurse coaxing teaspoons of calves foot jelly, whatever that is, though if it’s what it ought to be, gosh, down the throat of some infant with croup, whatever croup is – it always sounds to me like a disease of poultry – but anyway, I think I’ve made my meaning clear. Trees are nicer and more conscious than we think.”

“It makes you wonder whether tree surgeons should use anaesthetic.”

“I don’t know about that,” she said, in a manner that suggested she very much knew about that, “but it confirms what people have long believed – that trees are sentient beings. Think of the Greek dryads, and T¯ane Mahuta, and those wandering tree figures in Tolkien.” “Ents,” I said. “Precisely,” she said. “Ents. Where are you planting this bush of yours?”

“On the hill behind my house. I’m aiming to create an acre of native bush before I die and I intend to call it Bennett’s Bush which would be as nice a legacy as I could think of leaving.”

“You should read The Man Who Planted Trees. It’s about a French shepherd who decides to reforest a valley in the Alps so everywhere he goes he makes a little hole in the ground with his crook and drops an acorn into it. After 40 years or so he has created a whole lush forest and at the end of the story he dies a fulfilled and happy man.” “That’s nice,” I said.

“The story was hugely popular in the 1950s and lots of people believed it and made pilgrimages to the French Alps in search of a forest that wasn’t there.”

“I see.”

“They should have gone to India, because there’s a chap there who really has grown his own forest. He lives on an island in the Brahmaputra River and in order to stop it eroding he started planting trees and now 30 years later he’s created a forest that’s about the size of Whanganui but unlike Whanganui it’s home to tigers, deer, monkeys, rhinoceroses and even a herd of elephants. The planter’s getting on now and one wouldn’t want to jinx things but I think it’s safe to say that when he dies he’ll do so a fulfilled and happy man – unless, that is, he has the misfortune to be mauled and eaten by one of the tigers for whom he’s grown a home, in which case, one imagines, he’d die feeling a tad miffed.” “Indeed,” I said. “But there aren’t any tigers in Lyttelton,” she said, “so good luck with your bit of bush. And remember to plant them close together so they can chat.”

“I’ll do precisely that,” I said. ✤