This tree reminds me of an angry cartoon monster, wearing a thick ivy apron covering its extended belly. From the top of its vine-covered base, its arms and hands, each with multiple leaf-cloaked fingers, twist and extend from two anemic branches, reaching out in a spasmodic gesture. Its head is an unruly mop of fritz. On what I imagine to be its face, it wears a desperate expression, and its open mouth seems to be screaming for help. I think it’s in agony, from being slowly squeezed by the equivalent of a relentless boa constrictor that has latched on for decades.
The monster is in fact an enormous tulip tree hiding in plain sight a few feet from the sidewalk in a sliver of woodlands on the north side of Palmer Road heading west, right before the bridge over Central Park Avenue, and the traffic light regulating the access ramp to what once was Dick Gidron’s Cadillac. I doubt anyone ever stops to admire this tree or even knows it’s there. It lives in a place where people don’t go.
It would be hard not to overlook the tree, because it’s smothered in creeping English Ivy. But its tremendous size caught my attention, and I wanted to identify its species. Climbing into the surrounding tangle of undergrowth, at first I couldn’t identify it because the leaves and bark were hidden by the thick blooming vines. I’ve calculated that these vines must be 20 years old and may weigh 500 pounds.
Squinting into the sun, however, I finally recognized, high above the Ivy, the distinctive shape of tulip leaves, which are reminiscent of tulip bulb flowers (hence the name). These trees have remarkably straight trunks. They quickly grow straight and tall, because they are shade intolerant. They are programmed to thrust themselves upward to reach the top of the forest and then hog the sunlit canopy. In the spring they have lovely white and orange blossoms that soon litter the forest floor.
To get a close-up view of a particularly beautiful tulip tree, I recommend a visit to the Lenoir Nature Preserve. There is a very old tulip behind the Alder Manor, overlooking the ruins of what were the estate’s formal gardens.
The ubiquitous English Ivy, a non-native, invasive species, is the nemesis of all trees in our parks, on the borders of our highways, in people’s yards and in our forests. Like the tulip, it climbs upward to the sun, but it can also completely cover the ground, creating an impenetrable monoculture. English Ivy was brought into this country by the European colonists as an ornamental plant, and by the early 1800s it was commonly seen in cemeteries and clinging to stately buildings. It has been established in the wild for over a century.
Undoubtedly, the Ivy on this tulip tree has already weakened it considerably, leaving the tree susceptible to opportunistic diseases and pathogens. As it now moves into the tree’s crown, the Ivy will spread over and cover the topmost branches. It’s a slow-motion death sentence. In its weakened state, the weight of the vines will eventually bring the tree down.
As I drive around Yonkers, I see many trees in the death grip of English Ivy and other invasive vines. Sometimes, I want to knock on people’s doors and encourage them to cut the vines and liberate their suffering trees. It seems to be the least we can do for the trees that beautify our property, cleanse our air, give us shade and provide privacy, but unfortunately, we too often take them for granted.
This story is the second in a bimonthly series about trees in Yonkers. If any reader knows of a particular tree that they feel is worthy of an exposé, please contact me through the Yonkers Ledger at phil.zisman@theyonkersledger.com
