My husband keeps asking me why I call the tree I’m keeping tabs on “my little maple.” I guess he's right. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. Afterall, as you can see, the tree is quite a bit taller than I am. I have to admit, though, that I really didn’t realize just how much taller it is until my husband took this photo.
I always think of the spruce behind it as being MUCH larger. But look at which tree is actually taller. It was a shock to compare the two trees this way.
Usually, I look up at the maple from below—in the summer, when the tree has leaves. From that perspective, the leaves at the bottom obscure my view of the top, so I just don’t see how tall the maple truly is.
Of course, the spruce is much wider and, at least now in the winter, it has a much greater total volume. So as I tried to legitimize my term of endearment, “my little maple,” to my husband, I pointed this out. But then he dared me to compare the tree’s circumference to my own. Hmmph.
Turns out the tree is 35 inches around, and I’m 32 inches. Once again, the tree is bigger than I am.
The tree is probably older too. Our house was built in 1952, but I don’t think the tree was planted then. According to my research, Norway maples didn’t become popular in American nurseries until the mid 1960s. So I’m guessing my maple is about 45 years old.
Most of the time, I’m a pretty analytical thinker. But when it comes to the maple outside my office window, I guess my sentimental side takes over. I’ve looked at the tree logically—it’s taller, it’s wider, and it’s older than me. But I don’t really care. As far as I’m concerned, it’s still “my little maple.”