I knew I would miss the towering maple in our yard when I realized it would not live to see another winter.

One third of the tree came crashing down in the middle of a quiet night this past June, just missing our house. There had been no dramatic storm or gust of wind. Water for years had probably collected about 20 feet up, where several large branches met, an arborist told us. New England’s cycle of freezing and thawing had caused decay; the arms, spread wide, became too heavy for the tree to hold them up.

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Most trees can survive with even a big portion lopped off. But when the branches wrenched away they left a gaping hole. You could see the sky through the tree, a space that yawned just beneath the sweet canopy that had long shaded our back porch and once had held swings for our children. Its leaves had formed huge piles for the kids to jump in, followed by our dogs, who, no matter how old or arthritic they were, became puppies once again.

The portion of our maple tree after it toppled

Trees, scientists say, have a heartbeat of sorts, but one that beats once every two hours or so as water is pulled from the roots for nourishment. I didn’t need science to know that our tree had a beating heart as it presided over our lives for more than 27 years.

But sentiment clashed with cold reality. The tree would have to come down.

It was around 85, according to a neighbor. Years ago he had stopped by and recalled the day when the little sapling was planted, around 1940. He had been a boy of 10, he recalled, as he rested on his cane and glanced upwards. Look at it now, he said, smiling.

Bella sniffing around the very diminutive replacement for the maple

No longer. After the accident the stately tree was in pieces all over our yard, and soon, with the roar of chain saws, what wasn’t cut for firewood was chipped in great piles. Soon – too soon – even the wide stump was ground to nothing . My heart ached. The landscape seemed bleak. The back porch and patio baked in the sun. I never realized how much shade the tree gave us.

My husband Pete bought a red maple and planted it where the old tree had once stood. The sapling was about my size – a little over 5 feet – and no bigger around than a fat piece of chalk. Surely, someday it would be impressive.. But it would take a long time to cast any substantial shade, or heck, even be strong enough to hold up my laundry line. Pete and I had the same thought: At nearly 68 (me) and 71 (him) we didn’t have the time to wait

We needed a bigger tree. But, how? I had never heard of anyone planting a really big tree in their yard. Who does that, anyway?

Us, apparently.

The new tree arrives

Research brought us one afternoon to an isolated, lush meadow close to the Connecticut River. There stood oak, birch, beech and maple trees of all kinds, all planted in rows like stalks of corn – if corn were 30 feet high. We wandered until we came upon a large red maple. It would be a good companion to the little one just planted. This new tree was about 25 or 30 years old. Maybe it could mentor the sapling, I thought. They could keep each other company.

The man in charge promised he would water the tree regularly for six weeks and deliver it on a flatbed truck no later than the middle of October. Then he would dig a hole six feet deep and six feet across, use machines and manpower to place the tree in its new home and stake it down on three sides for stability.

And that’s what happened.

I had long planned a lunch with two close friends about 45 minutes away the day of delivery, so everything was done by the time I arrived back home. I parked the car and gaped up at the stately red maple, with its beautiful shape, already casting generous shade over our patio.

The new red maple, settling in

The sight brought tears to my eyes, moved by how graceful the tree seemed and how perfect it was in our yard, as if it had always been there. I was still sad over the tree we lost, but grateful we had followed through with a plan that had at first seemed to me to be hare-brained and, frankly, not a little indulgent.

But it was neither.

Long after we are gone, I hope our two maples hold swings for children, laundry lines for busy parents, and shower barking dogs with autumn leaves, all the while accompanied by the slow beating of their kind hearts.