The Loveliest of Trees

People have a way of remembering where they were and what they were doing when unexpected tragedy or loss strikes.

Matt Beckman, associate professor and biology department chair, arrived to Augsburg more tired than usual, still rattled by the violent winds from the night before. Ready for his early morning lab, he parked his car before looking out to the campus landscape.

Katie Lawson Ishida ’12, a development operations manager at Friends of the Hennepin County Library, was notified by her husband of news shared on Facebook. The Augsburg Greenhouse page had posted, and it couldn’t be more pertinent.

Vanessa Walton, an Augsburg community gardener, was working in her University of Minnesota office when she received a text message from the garden manager. In a state of shock, she immediately left campus, determined to see the damage for herself.

Shayna Sheinfeld, assistant professor of religion, drove to Augsburg’s campus, carpooling with a new colleague. After parking, she suggested they take a new path to the office, wanting to introduce him to her favorite landmark.

Leon van Eck, associate professor of biology, opened his inbox, discovering a new message from his department chair, advising caution when coming to campus. There was damage from the recent storm—a downed tree near Hagfors Center.

In the early morning hours of August 27, the tallest member of the Augsburg community fell to the ground beneath her. Folks at Augsburg and beyond had widely regarded her as “The Loveliest of Trees” and experienced an array of emotions when they first saw her lying horizontal. Anger. Sadness. Disbelief. Shock. Each having their own reasons why the tree mattered to them, they held one thing in common: The moment they saw the tree overwhelming the campus lawn was the moment they fully understood her importance in their lives.

The cottonwood that could

Once part of a collection of 34 species in the Augsburg Urban Arboretum, The Loveliest of Trees was a plains cottonwood, the most massive species in Minnesota and the fastest growing tree in all of North America. This makes plains cottonwoods a natural fit for life in the Mississippi River floodplain and lakeshores, stabilizing soil for the long-living trees that succeed them. Another distinguishable trait are their seeds—cottony filaments, dispersed in the wind by the tens of millions.

Walton, along with many of her fellow community gardeners, had another name for the tree’s seeds.

“I would often call that our ‘summer snow,’” she smiled. “The cottonwood fuzzies would land in everybody’s plots and all over the grass. I describe the tree as being a grandmother that would watch over the garden; you kind of felt nestled and safe under her.”

Experiencing the same summertime cotton through the years, Van Eck offered another narrative.

“Our large controlled plant growth rooms [in the Hagfors Center] require some air conditioning units that are on the roof of the building,” explained Augsburg’s plant biologist. And while he looked forward to having students back in the lab, Van Eck also knew that summertime coursework brought with it clogged vents through the cottonwood’s natural dispersal of seeds.

“Sometimes my growth units would go down. Later on, some of the little seedlings would actually sprout on the rooftop—the children of The Loveliest of Trees trying to expand its empire,” Van Eck laughed. “The plant doesn’t let you forget that they were here first and that human endeavors are very secondary.”

What’s in a name?

If cottonwood trees are so fast-growing, resilient, and common—especially in the state of Minnesota—then what made this tree worthy of the title she was given?

To truly know the tree is to understand her history. And that’s exactly what Beckman was tasked to do in the aftermath of the storms on August 27.

After an introduction from Van Eck, Beckman assisted University of Minnesota dendrochronologists Kurt Kipfmueller and Dan Griffin in beginning the process of dating the tree’s origin. Rather than utilizing the traditional method of evaluating a large slab—which would have been too heavy, taken too long to dry, and may not have given the most accurate age calculation—the trio instead decided to incorporate a newer technique.

Using an increment borer, they collected several samples around two feet in length, similar in appearance to a wooden dowel. One side of the sample was then sanded flat, making for a better view of the tree’s rings.

The analysis is ongoing, but the tree’s estimated age was 70–80 years old.

Back then, she would have come from humble beginnings, planted as a simple backyard tree by the owner of a house no longer standing. In fact, the whole neighborhood changed, as individual residences became Augsburg campus offices and housing. Plans were made to build Hagfors Center. The remaining houses were demolished, and the trees she once stood amongst were taken down one by one. The lone cottonwood tree could have been the next to go, but neighbors and members of the Augsburg community saw her value and advocated for her survival throughout the planning and construction of the Norman and Evangeline Hagfors Center for Science, Business, and Religion.

And so she stayed, a center of gravity at the northwest corner of campus.

As plans to construct Hagfors Center were beginning, a Google Maps point of interest was created by an anonymous user. The title, of course, was “The Loveliest of Trees,” likely referencing a poem of the same name by British writer A. E. Housman. A nickname given by a few eventually became a widely used term to refer to this most massive tree on campus—and the only Google Maps entry to hold the title worldwide. Although now listed as “permanently closed,” The Loveliest of Trees can still be viewed in the various stages of her prime, from July 2007 to June 2019, through a Google Street View.

Through an ever-changing lens

For Sheinfeld, visual reminders of the tree are as close as the camera roll on her phone.

In her first days at Augsburg, she saw the tree through quick glances on her way to and from the parking lot. Shortly after, she began to notice the tree, observing it through different eyes than she had initially. The leaves would change. The lighting was different. Yet, the tree itself was a constant presence.

That’s when she got the idea to track the tree’s progress through photos. A week after celebrating Tu B’shvat, a Jewish holiday that marks the “New Year of the Trees,” she officially began a series on February 13, 2023.

Despite not having a background in photography or a grand affinity for the outdoors, Sheinfeld felt an indescribable connection to the cottonwood. “Eventually, I stopped going in the nearest door and started walking around the building so that I could get a better look at the tree,” she said. “It was almost like watching a child grow, except that you get to see such differences in a much shorter period of time.”

Her full collection of photos can be viewed through Augsburg’s digital archives.

Like Beckman, Van Eck, and many other professors whose offices reside in Hagfors, Sheinfield didn’t have to rely on ideal weather conditions to enjoy the mighty cottonwood. She even changed her office orientation, shifting her desk so she could see out the window and gain a more accessible view of her favorite tree. Seeing the tree’s day-to-day changes was what ultimately altered her relationship to it.

Jewish tradition isn’t the only one that holds trees in high regard.

Walton gained a first-hand understanding of the importance of trees through a global lens. Her position as a program director in the Learning Abroad Center at the University of Minnesota frequently takes her to Thailand and Senegal, where specific trees carry meaning related to spiritual beliefs, national symbols, cultural heritage, or other identities.

“In Senegal,” Walton explained, “the tree that is considered really sacred is the baobab. Where a baobab grows, you leave it. You’ll be driving in parts of Senegal and the road will curve to go around it.”

Walton said that you don’t have to leave the country, or even the state, to encounter cultures that value trees. Three years ago, she attended a Dakota blessing on Augsburg’s campus. Facilitated by Dream of Wild Health, the ceremony celebrated not only the start of the gardening season but also the cottonwood tree that provided shade and a meeting place for those who worked in the garden.

“They told the story about how a visiting star from the sky led to the creation of the cottonwood tree and its importance in the Dakota culture,” Walton recalled. “When you open a branch, you can see the little star. It’s a beautiful story.”

When she learned that the tree had fallen, she wanted the chance to come together with others who loved this Loveliest of Trees, as she had for nearly 10 years. She wanted to make time to mourn, not alone, but in community.

Leaving room for grief

Walton got her wish.

Alex Fink, faculty director for the Sabo Center for Democracy and Citizenship, proposed a memorial service in honor of The Loveliest of Trees, which was held on August 30. Members of the biology department, including Beckman and Van Eck, assisted in the planning and spoke during the service. Sheinfeld, along with Campus Ministry, offered interfaith blessings and prayers. Walton shared a reflection, and other attendees were invited to do the same.

For Lawson Ishida, the memorial was her first time back on campus in years. She had recently had surgery and was just getting back on her feet, but she couldn’t imagine not taking this opportunity to say goodbye to an old friend.

While she was a student at Augsburg, the space beneath the tree had calmed her when she was feeling lonely or stressed, providing a safe and grounding place to collect her thoughts. Her back against the trunk, she would often close her eyes and listen to the song of the leaves in the breeze.

On the day of the memorial, in the same spot she used to go when she felt the most alone, Lawson Ishida found comfort, not from the tree, but from the individuals who loved the tree most.

“I got this chance to understand how much this tree meant to so many other people. It helped me gain a little perspective on the ways in which our lives intersect in these places and spaces—and that we’re maybe not as alone as we think. It rekindled some hope during a time when feeling hopeful can be challenging. I think that was something that The Loveliest of Trees left us.”

As friends of the tree left the memorial, they took with them physical reminders of her presence in their lives. A leaf. A branch. A piece of bark. Final photos. The cyanotype artwork they had created as part of the memorial service.

The takeaway for Van Eck, who wrote both the tree’s obituary and eulogy, is the “live fast, die young” nature of cottonwoods, carrying with them a deep, symbolic parallel to human life itself.

“At the time scale of our own lives,” Van Eck explained, “it kind of makes you feel small and like your life is small. But realizing that your life is very small and very finite actually makes it feel more precious. I think that tends to be the way that folks at Augsburg look at our lives. A small life well-lived can really be a very impactful one in the long run.”

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Top image: Piles of leaves, branches, and trunk—once referred to as “The Loveliest of Trees”—lie still on the campus lawn, August 2024. (Photo by Courtney Perry)