Fallen Giants

by Noah Darnell, chair of the department of communication

Editor’s note: On Sunday, May 18, 2025, a wind storm took down an elm on the front lawn in front of the David B. Burks American Heritage Building. Seeing that giant on the ground evoked feelings of grief and sadness in many hearts and inspired our staff to consider what it is about trees that seems particularly sentimental. We’re grateful for the kindred spirit of Noah Darnell, chair of the department of communication, who graciously shared reflections on his own recent loss of a historic tree. 

The first tree I ever saw fall was a massive weeping willow in the backyard of my childhood home in Alabama. As a child of single-digits at the time, I remember being fascinated by how big it was. When it was felled by a wind storm, it seemed — to my child mind — like it took up the whole back yard.

Now, decades later, I know willows like that don’t have great roots when planted in environments they’re not supposed to be in. The shoot my dad propagated and eventually planted in the backyard at my family’s new house created a sort of continuity to that first childhood home, but it didn’t survive long. I went home one day after being away for a while as an adult, and that clone willow was gone.

This time, no new shoot was propagated, and the line died there.

Now I have a different house in a different state. Just as those willows were out the back door and to the right, so stands a gigantic, towering oak. In a town like Searcy with no skyscrapers to speak of, we have skyscraper trees, and this one catches the clouds on the days when it’s not casting a shadow over most of my property. This tree is among that old guard that likely predates every house in the neighborhood — and that’s saying something considering a few houses, including mine, are on the National Register of Historic Places.

However, a few years ago, the power company or the city or someone decided to trim the tree away from power lines and basically cut this tree almost perfectly in half. For a while, it gave this half-life a good try, but the damage was too severe, and it has slowly succumbed until large portions are crumbling and large limbs drop after the slightest wind storm. And not too long ago, I was passing by, and the ground gave way: the roots are shot.

So it must come down.

If we care for things, they will outlive us. Trees usually don’t need our help except to stay out of their way. And even if you do everything perfectly, the diminishing return sets in and no more can be done. Still, this one hits me in the melancholy because it’s a shame to see such a vast collection of xylem and phloem, roots and twigs so quickly melt from the sky onto the ground. And perhaps I thought it would be easier, having spent so much time in forests where so many trees are outstretched on the ground, that those trees were somehow different from the ones we hire someone to slay. “Fight back!” I want to say as the chainsaws draw near. 

But it doesn’t fight back. And what took a dozen decades to grow is gone in a handful of hours. Or at least it will be gone once the city comes by and collects the pile. After all, I couldn’t quite get it all into the bin when the garbage truck came last Tuesday.