Most professions won’t have you sneaking into backyards to photograph tree bark. In advertising, you have to become an expert in subjects you know nothing about. You embrace tasks that are uncomfortable and outside your scope. And as you’ll find, these assignments teach you the most. They’re the ones that feel most special.
How Paul DeJong Taught Us to Love Trees
Recently, a group of us at Fresh Produce spent the year becoming local tree experts while collaborating with Paul DeJong on his new book, Trees of All Saints & McKennan Park.
You might know Paul from his time as co-owner of Landscape Garden Centers. Now retired, he devotes his time and energy to sharing his love of urban forestry through books and stories. His first book, If Our Trees Could Talk, came out just over a year ago and highlighted all of the remarkable species found throughout Sioux Falls. For his new book, he turned his attention closer to home.
A resident of Touchmark at All Saints, Paul explores his neighborhood nearly every day. If you live nearby, you’ve certainly seen him—bumping along the sidewalk on his cherry red scooter, stopping to observe a yellow-rumped warbler or a hollow in a black locust. Trees are endlessly fascinating to Paul, and over the years, he’s absorbed more arboreal wisdom than anyone we know.
Joining Paul for a walk felt like the natural way to kick off our process of writing, designing, and illustrating the book. I didn’t exactly know what a “tree walk” entailed, but I imagined it’d be pretty leisurely. It was not.
Paul drove his scooter like a rocket. I was assigned to take notes and photos, but spent most of the time jogging in my work jeans just to keep pace. I had a camera bouncing on one hip, a bag slung on the other, and a notepad full of chicken scratch flapping in my hand. It was exhilarating. Paul was a treasure trove of knowledge, and he made looking at trees important work.
By the second or third walk, we’d found a better rhythm. I focused on notes while Jimmy, our designer, shot photos. We wanted the book to feel like a nature journal, so we tried seeing like naturalists—observing how light played on a cluster of leaves, or how elegantly misshapen a tree looked after losing a few branches. We didn’t know the difference between an elm and an oak, or what Paul meant by “exfoliating bark,” but Paul didn’t want this to feel scientific. He wanted it to reflect the relationship between neighbors and their trees.
That idea shaped our whole approach. It became less about finding facts and more about collecting stories. But finding reliable, insider knowledge on 30 particular trees proved harder than expected. We tried flyers and online surveys, city databases and historic newspapers. In the end, the best method was just knocking on doors and talking to people.
We learned a lot through the process: about how a chokecherry split in half and got bolted back together; how one homeowner measures her tree’s diameter in hugs; how McKennan Park once had a golf course, and how someone stashed their liquor bottles in the course’s outhouse during Prohibition. And how, when you think about it, the park’s trees may be the only living things to have seen the culprit.
Trees are like story magnets. They’ve captured entire histories of neighborhoods. Likewise, they’ve shaped their neighborhoods for years—drawing wildlife into yards, casting shade over patios, and perfuming sidewalks each spring. When you really get to know a tree, you see how it feeds everything around it.
Of course, not everyone sees their trees this way. Many complain about pinecones littering their lawns, silver maples scratching their cars, or spiky buckeye shells pricking their feet. But with trees, Paul says, it’s important to love the good, the bad, and the ugly. After all, you don’t love something because it’s convenient—you love it because it’s yours.
After wrapping up the book, I did a little research on the tree in my front yard. Apparently, it’s a Bradford pear—a tree universally detested by arborists and homeowners alike. One person online even called it a “terrible and stinky tree” because its branches snap like pretzel rods and its flowers smell like rotten garbage.
Immediately, I got defensive: “Hey, that’s my tree you’re talking about. It’s the only one in our yard. It keeps our grass green, and I like looking at it. So what if it’s an invasive species? This one’s mine.”
I won’t pretend my tree is perfect. But I can honestly say I’ve never noticed these flaws. What I’ve noticed is how many birds and squirrels it attracts. I’ve noticed how its bark turns a deep bronze color when it rains, and how striking it looks in a flash photo. I’ve noticed how it’s the first tree on the block to bloom, and how its big clusters of white flowers are a welcome sight after a long, harsh winter.
The more time you spend with something, the closer you feel to it. You start to notice what others don’t. You get irrationally protective. And that’s a good thing, because it means you care deeply—even, and especially, for things that aren’t perfect.
And frankly, no tree is perfect. Neither is any neighborhood, and neither are the people who live there. But the more time we spend telling stories and getting to know the people and trees around us, the more we’ll feel connected to them, and the better we’ll all be for it.
You can purchase your copy of Paul’s new book, Trees of All Saints & McKennan Park here, or by visiting the Town Tree exhibit at Ipso Gallery at Fresh Produce [most] Monday-Fridays from 8AM-5PM.
Thank you to Fresh Color Press for being such a great partner and to Angela George at the Argus Leader for covering this special project.
