It’s not unusual to hear people say “human decency has gone the way of all good things” or “kindness doesn’t seem to matter any more.” This story shows that kindness and decency are alive and well.
A couple of years ago, while living in Northfield, I sought a small apartment in Greenfield to live part-time so I could be closer and provide daily care to my dear mother, who’d moved here from up north. I found the perfect little place.
I noticed a Norway maple at the edge of the next property. I think of Norways as “dirty trees,” dropping buds, seeds, twigs, loads of leaves and — my least favorite — branches.
I didn’t think much of it, though, until a very windy day last year. Upon returning home from school, my son (then 14) wanted to be outside. I said, “Honey, Daddy’s cousin was killed by a falling branch on a day like this in 2004, when you were just a few weeks old. Come inside, please.” He did, and within one minute we heard a resounding boom. A huge Norway maple branch blasted across the driveway we’d just come in on. Anyone standing under it likely would have been killed.
Over the next months, the tree continued to drop small and medium branches.
So I was delighted to hear in mid-August that DPW workers would soon remove the tree. The crew arrived on a gorgeous Monday morning and, by afternoon, had removed all branches and got to work on the large trunk. Workers deftly placed huge chunks of wood on a flatbed as if they were teacups. My son and I looked on in wonder while working in our garden.
One worker gave a shout, and the crew stopped for a few moments. He’d discovered a nest of newborn squirrels in the rotting trunk. He nestled the babies inside a section of hollowed-out branch and carried the woody nursery to a spot on the tree belt. The squirrel mom had evacuated due to noise and bustle.
The rescuer beckoned to me and asked, “Are you going to be around for a while?”
“A little while,” I replied. “Why?”
“If someone keeps an eye on these babies after we’re done and the equipment is gone,” he said, gesturing to the hairless, blind rodents, “the mother might have a chance to retrieve them before some other animal shows up and has a snack.” He looked at me with doleful eyes.
“Um, I can hang around for a while,” I said, hesitantly, “but then what?”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll come back soon. If the mom hasn’t returned, I’ll adopt them. I have a farm [he named a hilltown] and I’ve bottle-fed lots of strays.” As a tree guy, he’s seen more than his fair share of displaced, abandoned critters.
“You can bottle feed baby squirrels?” I asked, glancing at quivering, hairless, blind mammals just a few inches long.
“Sure,” he said, confidently.
The crew removed all but a short stump and left the area spotless. They drove away in three large vehicles, and the neighborhood felt dead quiet after hours of sawing and grinding. My son and I continued our chores while keeping an eye out for would-be marauders.
The rescuer returned in his pick-up truck and asked, “Still here?”
“No sign of Mama,” I replied sadly, but then smiled. “Looks like you have a new family.”
My bittersweet mood turned to rapturous admiration as I watched this stocky, muscled man lift each newborn with utmost care, moving them from the hollow branch to a moistened fabric bag. He spoke quietly to each of the five babies.
Lifting the last one, he paused. “Aw, darn it,” he lamented. “This little one didn’t make it.” I peeked at a tiny body already gone rigid. Tucking the corpse gingerly next to its siblings, he said, “Well, I’ll take it along with the others.”
I don’t know if the man is outgoing or shy, so I won’t use his name. But T., as you nurture your menagerie of chickens, ducks, and turkeys, and plan to add other animals in coming years, I wish you the best of luck and I thank you. You remind me that, even as headlines scream with increasing intensity about violence and callous disregard, it’s wonderful to know that people like you are out there making a difference every day.
Eveline MacDougall is a resident of Greenfield.