There once stood a grand old tree, planted in 1881, whose roots reached deep into the soil and deeper still into the hearts of those who passed beneath its broad canopy. It was more than just a tree—it was a quiet sentinel of time, history, and resilience. I always felt a kinship with that tree. Whenever I led tours, I would stop and introduce it like an old friend, because that’s exactly what it was to me. —Maureen Danahy
On April 8, 2025, the beloved silver maple (Acer saccharinum) 12560*C, which stood tall over Meadow Road for more than a century, finally succumbed to rot and was taken down in the landscape for safety measures. Much like the loss of a loved one, the final days of the silver maple were met with celebration and grieving for the 144-year-old ligneous giant whose life in the Arnold offered homes for small creatures, plants, and fungi, extended shade for thousands of visitors beneath its branches, and embodied what it means to care for trees as they grow and age over many seasons.
The loss of the silver maple in the landscape touched many in the Arnold, and the weeks leading up to the day the crews came with their crane offered staff, docents, and friends across the Arboretum a chance to reflect on this tree’s life and its significance. In such reflection, a mosaic of memories cropped up about the silver maple. Docent and longtime friend of the Arboretum, Maureen Danahy—whose words guide this memoriam to the silver maple—writes of her relationship with the silver maple in a manner that is both profoundly personal, and something many of us can relate to: deep connection to this landscape. Her voice, along with recollections of seasoned head arborist, John Del Rosso, and archival material from Arnoldia and the Arboretum, tell a story of what this tree meant to this place and the people to care for it: a story connecting us to the silver maple, and to one another.
Much like the loss of a loved one, the final days of the silver maple were met with celebration and grieving for the 144-year-old ligneous giant.
Telling stories—of trees, plants, places, and people—is a unique privilege we have at the Arnold Arboretum. It drives our work every day, in every part of this multifaceted institution. It is a precious gift to be a place of such connection—something the silver maple offered as a seed in 1881 and reminded us of when it came down nearly a century and a half later.
We had so much in common, that tree and I. Its roots reminded me of my own—deep, grounded, and reaching back through generations. It stood weathered and wise, its branches outstretched like arms that had long since given up counting the number of people who found shade, solace, or quiet beneath them. Like me, the tree had undergone its share of repairs. Its limbs had been braced, cables wound through its aging frame, not unlike the way I’ve had wires and body parts mended over time. We were both patched together with care and determination, still standing, still offering something to the world. —Maureen Danahy
Acer saccharinum is native to eastern North America and parts of southeastern Canada. Though they can grow in drier soils, trees of the species prefer moist soils in wooded areas, particularly near rivers. In her 2008 Arnoldia article, “Silver Wins Gold,” former editor of Arnoldia, Nancy Rose, remarked: “[n]o doubt the vigor, longevity, and stature of Acer saccharinum 12560*C is due in part to its ideal growing site in the moist, rich soil of the Arboretum’s Meadow area.” As water and nutrients passed between the silver maple and the meadow, the tree nourished countless people who walked along Meadow Road, gazing at its rounded, spreading crown.
Even as it aged, that tree never lost its beauty. Its imperfections were part of its character, each crack and knot a testament to a life fully lived.
The gray, scaly mature bark of the silver maple spiraled up its enormous trunk, which, when removed by the crews in chunks, weighed about 3,000 pounds each. At the time of Rose’s writing, the silver maple was the tallest tree in the Arboretum, standing 126 feet (38.5 meters) tall, hence the title: “Silver Wins Gold.” Nancy Rose observed that the tree also was “irresistible to many visitors passing by on Meadow Road [and] no doubt … one of the most frequently touched trees in the Arboretum.”
Even as it aged, that tree never lost its beauty. Its imperfections were part of its character, each crack and knot a testament to a life fully lived. I found hope in its resilience. I saw my own story in the way it leaned into the years, gracefully, purposefully—still a part of the landscape, still worthy of admiration. —Maureen Danahy
Quickly gaining the status of a giant in the landscape, the silver maple 12560*C survived two of the siblings with whom it had arrived as a seedling in 1881 from the nursery of Benjamin M. Watson in Plymouth, Massachusetts: 12560*A was removed in 1982 and 12560*B in 1985 following severe damage from Hurricane Gloria. Having survived many storms—including a 1938 hurricane—Acer saccharinum 12560*C has defied expectations, as silver maple is considered highly susceptible to storm damage. But often with age comes the need for particular and increasing care. Radar imaging and wood-density borings in 2006 revealed some decay and two cables were installed to connect the main vertical limbs—cables which were the subject of many safety deliberations led by John Del Rosso in the removal process.
Del Rosso has spearheaded several preservation efforts for silver maple 12560*C, including when the tree’s leader branch fell under the weight of record-breaking March snow in 2018 during Winter Storm Skylar. Making the decision to take down any tree in the landscape, particularly giants like the silver maple, is not an easy one, and often aches for those closest to the process. With his expertise as an arborist, Del Rosso led the committee in charge of the silver maple’s removal process. He remarked that “there is a lot that goes into assessing a tree’s risk level” including a specific certification for tree-risk assessment which most of the Arboretum’s arborists hold. Additionally, Del Rosso was tuned into the presence of “targets” things (or people) which the tree could hit. In Del Rosso’s assessment, the silver maple lacked epicormic branches that often stabilize older trees, and it did not respond well to past pruning cuts made to lessen the load. Its inability to form wound wood or compartmentalize internally hastened the spread of decay. As such, Acer saccharinum’s 12560*C’s age showed itself: it didn’t quite have the vigor needed to maintain its stability. To prevent injury in and damage to the landscape, the sun set on the silver maple’s time standing in the landscape.
But its absence is not emptiness. It is a space now filled with memory, with gratitude, and with the quiet understanding that nothing lasts forever, but everything meaningful leaves a mark.
Its recent removal left an ache in the earth, and in me. But its absence is not emptiness. It is a space now filled with memory, with gratitude, and with the quiet understanding that nothing lasts forever, but everything meaningful leaves a mark. That tree stood for nearly a century and a half, and I was lucky enough to share some of its final chapters. In a way, the tree and I still stand together—in spirit, in memory, and in every story, I continue to tell about its life, and the quiet, beautiful ways it mirrored my own. —Maureen Danahy
The life of a tree can be measured and appreciated in myriad ways. For the silver maple, its age and height were remarkable, measurements of life that will live on in our records and archives. Its life will live on too, in the memory of those who joined hands to circle the tree to measure the tree’s DBH (diameter at breast height): about three adults, and a whole class of preschoolers locked arm in arm in their fluorescent yellow vests. The life of this tree is astounding, a testament to the care poured into it by crew and visitors alike.
It didn’t take the tree’s whole life to realize this. At the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, a time with little reprieve from tumult and devastation, John Del Rosso asked a favor of three local wood turning clubs. Members of the crew who contributed the silver maple’s care were instructed one day to select a random package from Del Rosso at the conclusion of the workday. Later, the group gathered on Zoom to open their packages. Though separated by social distancing, the crew together unwrapped hand-turned wooden vases and bowls made from a large limb the silver maple lost in a heavy snowstorm. A gift of appreciation, the turned pieces encompassed and embodied the relationship of mutual care that is always in practice between teams of workers and the trees and plants they encounter in this landscape.
The life of this tree is astounding, a testament to the care poured into it by crew and visitors alike.
Days before silver maple 12560*C came down, Michael Dosmann and Rachel Brinkman led a Tribute Tree Mob to celebrate the life of this cherished tree, a ritualistic celebration of care for life in this landscape. Staff members made comments in passing that they were headed out to the landscape to say goodbye to the tree before the cranes came. And, at 7:30am on April 8, descending from 160 feet in the air from the crane, the arborist took his first ride into the silver maple’s canopy, making his final cut four hours later. The last two cuts of the largest parts of the tree took an hour and a half of the four. After, staff reached their hands into the cavity in the stump to feel the decomposing wood radiating heat, making it measurably warmer than the outside air on that bright, cool spring day.
There is loss in the emptiness where the silver maple stood, but warmth, too, in
what remains—and what may emerge in the future. Change is always happening in this landscape, but the bigger moments, like the loss of a giant, can lead us to deeper experiences of caring for and about the arboreal life we live among.
Maureen Danahy is a docent at the Arnold Arboretum and Claire Neid is the editorial assistant at Arnoldia.