SCOTT SHALAWAY An ode to sassafras

About 70 years ago on a bright September morning, a small dark blue fruit caught the eye of a hungry catbird. The bird grabbed the ripe berry and swallowed it posthaste. Within 90 minutes, the seed cleared the catbird's system and dropped to a patch of fertile soil on the edge of an oak-hickory woodland.
Within a few years, a spindly sapling stood idly by as lumberjacks headed deeper into the woods in search of big, valuable oaks. Unlike most trees, its leaves came in three distinct shapes. Most were simple ovals, but some resembled a three-fingered hand, and a few were shaped like mittens. The mitten-shaped leaves were both left- and right-handed. The green twigs from which the leaves arose were pleasantly aromatic when broken. The tree was a young sassafras.
Least respected
Of all the trees that populate the eastern deciduous forest, sassafras is among the least respected. One reference book calls it a "weed tree" because it loves bright sun and invades open fields. In the south it can grow to 80 feet with a diameter of six feet. At higher latitudes and elevations, it's usually a small tree and often ignored. Many birds love its fleshy fruits, but I've never heard a forester sing its praises.
But sometimes when the soil is particularly fertile and the initial growing conditions are just right, a West Virginia sassafras can get downright respectable. For almost 20 years I've been enjoying a sassafras on a hillside I can see from the dinner table. Each fall its flaming red-orange leaves stand out amidst a sea of yellow-green elms.
So it must have been with the sassafras that geminated on the forest edge some seven decades ago. By the time a neighbor felled it, that tree had grown to at least three feet in diameter. I know because a board from that tree stares down at me whenever I sit at the dinner table. It's an end panel on one of our kitchen cabinets. And a more gorgeous piece of wood I've never seen.
Counting rings
I can count nearly 70 growth rings on that board, and as I run my fingers across its breadth, I can just barely feel each one. It's like looking at a personal history. My parents were born just a few years before the seedling took root.
I can find the year they were married, the years my father fought in World War II, and the year I was born. I can see the years of my graduations, my marriage, and the births of my daughters. That piece of sassafras is my mirror in time. I'm going to leave instructions to my daughters to cut it in half, frame the pieces, and pass them on as heirlooms.
I owe thanks for this beautiful piece of woodwork to Tom Pettit, a friend, neighbor, retired ironworker, and skilled cabinet maker. When my wife and I first approached him about making our cabinets, we wanted oak. We had always loved its rich grain, but I also knew it could be difficult to work.
When we explained what we had in mind, Tom said he'd make whatever we wanted, but he asked if we ever considered sassafras. "It's lightweight, strong, easy to use, and with the right stain, it's really beautiful," he told us. "And I've got some nice sassafras boards that have been drying for several years."
Skeptical at first
We were skeptical at first because oak had always been out favorite wood. The possibility of using sassafras had never occurred to me. But when Tom showed us a few kitchens and other pieces he had made of sassafras, we were sold. It's one of the best home decorating decisions we've ever made.
So now whenever I sit at the dining room table I think back to the catbird (or maybe it was a bluebird) that planted that special seed some 70 y ears ago. I think about my family and my life. And I ponder the fate of that big sassafras I can see from that very same dinner table. Maybe there are more cabinets up on that hillside.
sshalaway@aol.com