Braiding Sweetgrass

gives us each a U.S. Department of Agriculture pamphlet with a
photo of a shiny green beetle on the cover. “If you care about ash
trees,” he says, “you’d better pay attention. They’re under attack.”
The emerald ash borer, introduced from China, lays its eggs in
tree trunks. After the larvae hatch, they chew up the cambium until
they pupate, when the beetle bores its way out of the tree and flies
off to find a new nursery. But wherever it lands, it is inevitably fatal
for the infested trees. Unfortunately for the people of the Great
Lakes region and New England, the beetle’s favorite host is ash.
Today there is a quarantine on moving logs and firewood in an
effort to contain their spread, but the insect is moving faster than
scientists predicted.
“So, be on the lookout,” John says. “We have to protect our
trees, that’s our job.” When he and his family are harvesting logs in
the fall, they take special care to gather up fallen seeds and spread
them around as they move through the wetlands. “It’s like anything
else,” he reminds us. “You can’t take something without giving
back. This tree takes care of us, so we have to take care of it.”
Already, vast areas of ash in Michigan have died; beloved basket
grounds are now boneyards of barkless trees. There is a rupture in
the chain of relationship that stretches back through time
immemorial. The swamp where the Pigeons have gathered and
cared for black ash for generations is now infested. Angie Pigeon
writes, “Our trees are all gone. I don’t know if there will be any
more baskets.” To most people, an invasive species represents
losses in a landscape, the empty spaces to be filled by something
else. To those who carry the responsibility of an ancient
relationship, the empty niche means empty hands and a hole in the
collective heart.
Now, when so many trees have fallen and the tradition passed on