Let me preface this by saying that I have been called a tree-hugger.

The label fits. In fact, I embrace it. That’s why it is with great shame that I report my feelings toward the trees in my back yard. I want to hack them limb from limb, even though they are more than 50 feet tall and likely much older than my parents. I’ll admit the trees are gorgeous and provide wonderful shade in the heat of the summer.

Here’s the thing: They’re cottonwoods. I can hear some Kansans firing up their chainsaws. For the rest of you, here is the cottonwood’s to-do list:

• Early spring: Drop sticky green-yellow leaf-bud jackets. Stain deck, carpet, feet and socks. (They also stick in clumps between the dog’s toes. When she pulls them out, inevitably eating some of them, she throws up lime green.)
• Late spring, usually May: Burst millions of pea-shaped pods, which hang like malignant clustered grapes. Release “cotton” over entire neighborhood. Simulate blizzard. (The asthma-producing cotton clogs the air conditioner, billows like soapsuds in the driveway, sticks in your hair and throat, and drifts aimlessly for weeks. When we bought our house, the owners told us cotton season lasted about two weeks. They failed to add “per tree.” We have three.)
• The minute the cotton is gone: Drop aforementioned pods. (Everywhere. Particularly our gutters.)
• Late fall: Drop approximately 100,000 leaves per tree. (Endless raking and bagging.)
• The remainder of the year: Drop 200 sticks and branches per square inch of yard. (These must be collected before each mowing and set out with the trash.)


Karen Roberts is dwarfed by cottonwoods in her back yard. Roberts has an annual love-hate relationship with the trees.

The cottonwood is the state tree of Kansas. The cotton-bearing variety is also generally “outlawed.” So although my trees are official dignitaries, they are also in fact common criminals. The “Cottonwood Three” possess the traits that earned the tree its place in Kansas history; they’re fast growing, hardy, relatively wind-resistant and drought tolerant. These points may be balanced against the mess by more forgiving homeowners. The trees also have a vast network of taproots, driving hard toward sources of precious water, such as our pipes.

Frankly, we’d like to have them removed. But a recent “branchectomy” was quite pricey. I tried to get the neighbors involved. The neighbors, who hate the cotton and endure a portion of the criminal activity, declined. I began to hope for some sort of blight. I asked the master gardener at the Douglas County extension office about sadistic gene-splicing experiments to render them sterile. I recklessly attracted lightning during a harsh storm. No luck.

I have tried to love these trees. Really. To get to know them, I did some reading. I discovered that the Lakota consider the cottonwood a sacred tree, used in sun dance rituals. The Hopi carve kachina dolls from its roots. The tree is instrumental in mediating conflict, and its heart-shaped leaves reveal its sanctity. It is known as “the people’s tree.”

Cottonwoods were welcomed by the pioneers. A stand of cottonwoods was a harbinger of nearby water — so vital, so precious. Transplanted, the trees stretched quickly toward the sky, sheltering the homes, animals and gardens of the intrepid prairie dwellers. These things impressed me. So, while I cannot love the trees, I have tried to scrape together respect for them. I hope I will withstand the affection they, in turn, shower on my home daily.

Until recently, I have spent little time in my back yard. The ridiculously fecund Cottonwood Three, and a deck that was, for all intents and purposes, a deathtrap, kept me inside. But now I have a sturdy new safe-for-human-usage deck. So I’m being brave. I am sitting outside right now, enjoying the evening. I listen to the rustle of the wind through heart-shaped leaves, trying to love the “Cottonwood Three.”

Just when I was feeling safe, the pods began to rupture, spewing cotton into the air. I have retreated and am trapped in the house for the duration. I race from the car to the house to avoid the choking fluff that falls around me. Dramatic? Perhaps. But think of horror films, science fiction films. Consider many of those films feature pods.

Coincidence? I think not.