SUGGESTION NO. 3: THE CHILDREN’S FOREST

The first time I visited Buchart Gardens in Victoria, British Columbia, I came in by boat. There’s a little path that leads up from the bay, and, for whatever reason, boaters get in free. But what struck me more than the cost of admission, was a certain tree at the top of the path — -a giant Sequoia. The plaque at the base of the tree identified its planting as some time in the 1960’s. I remember looking up in astonishment — -it was huge! I was in college when they planted it as a sapling, but it was already bigger than any Douglas Fir or Western Hemlock I had ever seen (outside of the giants in the Olympic Rain Forest where they are 300 years old or more). Clearly, a giant redwood from northern California does very well on the Washington/B.C. coastal zone.

Many times since then I have wondered just how tall that tree would grow to be if everyone left it alone until it died of old age. Sequoias can live for thousands of years. It was years later, after I became conscious of my carbon footprint, that I started to wonder just how many Sequoias could recapture all the carbon I had burned over my lifetime if they were left alone for the next two millennium. Would one do it? Or two? Or ten?

That started me thinking. Why don’t we all start planting trees to recapture all the carbon we are burning over the course of our lives? In my part of the planet, we could plant Sequoias — -they grow fast and capture carbon at warp speed. The beauty of it all is that long after my ashes are feeding some other plant, my Sequoias would just keep plodding along, sucking in all the carbon I had spewed out over a lifetime, exhaling pure oxygen in its place. Who knows, perhaps in a thousand years or so someone might put a plaque on my tiny forest that says, “Richard Kelley’s carbon has been recovered”. Obviously, if I planted a thousand trees, it might only take a century or so to erase my debt.

That all started me thinking more: What if every child in school were to plant a Sequoia each year from kindergarten through high school…or an elm, or an oak, or whatever grows in their part of the country? And what if nobody were allowed to touch any of those trees…ever. Eventually, a mighty “Children’s Forest” would begin to grow across the land. Slowly, over time, we would begin to replace the vast forests that once grew before we showed up with our saws. Now obviously, someone is going to have to pay for the land — -I suggest that government might be a candidate here. But better than that, why not have the children themselves invest in their forest? I can see bake sales and Saturday car washes and bottle drives (do they still have bottle drives?). I mean, how much does it cost to buy enough land to plant a tree?

I might suggest that the kids consider buying land in the Amazon basin. There’s lots of it there that hasn’t got any trees right now, and I’m told the land is pretty cheap in those places.

I do foresee a problem. As the trees grow over time, saliva will eventually start dripping from the tip of chain saws. This will require legislation to protect the kids’ trees. In our state, that might prove easy — -plant Sequoias and pass legislation making it illegal to cut, transport, process, or sell or buy them in any manner. Sequoias don’t grow naturally in the Northwest, and a logging truck moving down I-5 with a load of redwoods would stick out like a sore thumb. Perhaps the same is true with a Banyun tree in Nebraska. So, by planting non-indigenous trees (yet trees that are guaranteed to thrive), the chain saw lust can be curbed if not eliminated. A healthy jail sentence and fine might add to the protection of the trees.

A children’s forest doesn’t necessarily have to be in some isolated stretch of land. I can foresee urban children’s forest with trees strategically planted to provide shade to buildings over time, reducing the need for air conditioning in the hot summer months (kill two birds with one stone, ya see). And urban forests are kind of hard to cut down and haul away without being seen.

So imagine little Sally standing at the base of a giant redwood, peering upward at the branches spreading out hundreds of feet above her. “My great, great grandpa planted that tree ,” she might say to Tommy, before the two turn to run after their classmates, their Sequoia seedlings grasped firmly in one hand and a planting trowel in the other.

Richard

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