White Pine

The flooring of our second story appears to be original wide board planking, probably white pine. It's visible from the first floor because there is no dropped ceiling, just the bare planks. They appear to be continuous down the length of the old part of the house, about 35 feet, although I suppose they could be smaller pieces nailed invisibly into the joists. And many of them are wide, as much as 19 inches.

The white pine is a fabled tree: the tallest in the east (as much as two hundred feet), very old (close to 500 years in a few cases), prized by builders since colonial times, claimed in the age of sail by British agents in search of the perfect masts for their warships. This house was built as a cottage in 1924, not that old in the scheme of things, and the only fables here are the ones we make ourselves, but yet I like this link to the colonial past if only through the workmanship. I assumed that boards this wide were pretty rare these days, but Google tells me otherwise. Lots of builders offer wide planks and many are careful to say they come from sustainably harvested trees. I marvel at the tree that could produce a board 35 feet long and a foot-and-a-half wide; maybe these days you can only get one or two such boards per tree, accounting for the high prices. It's comforting to know that if the market goes completely sour, there's a small fortune in our ceiling.

It's not so comforting to know that white pine is fragile in a storm. There's more than one exploded trunk in the woods out back, from the southeaster some weeks ago, the same storm that broke a large branch off the white pine growing feet from our house, which landed inches from our house. Perhaps it's trying to get us back for owning the innards of one of its relatives from 85 years ago.

Today's southeaster isn't nearly so violent, and our stately neighbor has so far refrained from further punishment. All is well, for the house is strong and well built, and the surf is crashing, and I'm lost in time.