By Bill McClintic Ode Dying Ash to a O ur name for him - The Orchard - is synonymous with the stand and its location. The little ash was never more than 20 inches wide at the base and the simple hang-on stand among his branches never rested more than 18 feet up in the air. But the perch off ered a perfect view of an aging apple orchard likely to a planted in the early 1900s. Best of all was the wind. Somehow, no matter its direction or velocity, it always went straight up there, that little ash acting like a chimney. I've watched my delicate wind feathers curl up and away countless times and can never recall a deer making me, even when The Orchard was barren Hanging On Trunk Full of Memories MARCH 2025 9