If You Spot White-Painted Trees, Here’s What It Means
I’ve always been interested in why some trees have white paint on their branches.
I couldn’t help but wonder if these trees meant something important every time I went by them.
I recently discovered that those who plant trees use this clever trick to convey a very strong message about the trees.
We learned that the paint color is a code that tells us important things about the tree’s future and health.
You may have noticed that trees with orange dots on them are often going to be cut down.
For the same reason, purple markings on a tree usually mean “no trespassing” or that it is on private land.
But the white paint is used for something completely different. It is put on trees in the winter to help keep them from getting sunburned.
During the winter, temperatures change a lot for trees.
Image source: Erwin/Flickr
The sun can heat up the tree’s bark during the day, making it grow. But when it gets dark, the temperature drops very quickly, which makes the bark shrink and cool down quickly.
These sudden changes in temperature can split the bark, which can do a lot of damage to the tree’s trunk.
That’s why the white paint is useful.
The light color of the paint helps keep the tree’s trunk from getting too hot during the day by reflecting sunshine away from it.
In turn, this lowers the chance of cracks and splits caused by sudden changes in temperature.
It’s kind of like a natural sunscreen for trees that keeps the rough winter weather from hurting their bark.
I was interested in learning more about how to use white paint properly now that I knew what it was for.
Tree planters usually do this job with water-based latex paint, it turns out.
For the best effects, it’s important to dilute the paint the right way.
As a general rule, mix one gallon of paint with one gallon of water. This mix keeps the paint from being too thick, so it’s easy to put on the tree’s bark.
A paintbrush is usually used to put on the paint.
Some tree planters choose to spray the thinned paint onto the bark instead, which can cover more ground or be more efficient.
No matter what method is used, the trunk must be covered evenly so that all of its parts are protected from the cold weather.
One of the things that interested me the most was how often the white paint should be used.
Most of the time, tree planters only paint the stems once a year.
Learning the reason why trees are painted white was an educational event.
That something as simple as paint can have such a big effect on trees’ health, especially in the winter, is very interesting.
To protect against sun damage and damage from sudden changes in temperature, the white paint acts like a shield.
When you see a tree with a fresh coat of white paint, you’ll know that someone cares about keeping our green friends healthy and growing!
The Old Man Walked Into the Shelter and Asked for the One No One Wanted — “I’ll Take the Mean One,” He Said Quietly, But the Night He Collapsed Alone at Home, It Was the Cat Everyone Feared Who Refused to Leave His Side and Changed Everything
The Old Man Walked Into the Shelter and Asked for the One No One Wanted — “I’ll Take the Mean One,” He Said Quietly, But the Night He Collapsed Alone at Home, It Was the Cat Everyone Feared Who Refused to Leave His Side and Changed Everything
The first time I saw her, she wasn’t just sitting in the back corner of that county shelter—she was watching the world like it had already disappointed her beyond repair, like every pair of footsteps that had ever passed her cage had confirmed a quiet, stubborn belief that nothing good was coming, and that she had better be ready for that.
For 204 days, that’s what she had done.
She had watched people walk in asking for kittens with round eyes and soft fur, watched children press sticky hands against glass while their parents laughed and said, “Something friendly, something easy,” watched volunteers lower their voices when they reached her enclosure as if the mere act of speaking normally might provoke her into proving every rumor they had spread about her—that she scratched, that she bit, that she could not be trusted, that she was, in the softest and most polite way possible, a problem no one wanted to bring home.
Her fur was uneven, not in a way that suggested neglect alone but in a way that hinted at a life that had not been gentle, her left ear carried a jagged tear that never quite healed cleanly, and her yellow eyes—sharp, unwavering, impossible to soften—met every gaze with the same unspoken challenge: I will not beg you to choose me.
Most people didn’t.
And then one morning, when the air still carried that thin, biting edge of early winter and the shelter smelled faintly of disinfectant and stale coffee, a man walked in who did not look like he belonged among hopeful adopters searching for companionship as much as comfort.
He was seventy-six, though he moved with the slow caution of someone who had learned the hard way that a single misstep could change everything, his shoulders bent just slightly forward as if life had pressed on them for years without ever fully letting up, his boots worn in the specific way that suggested decades of standing rather than walking, and tucked carefully into the pocket of his shirt was a small plastic pillbox that he touched every few minutes without seeming to notice he was doing it.
His name, I would later learn, was Leonard Hayes.
Behind him came his daughter, Evelyn, whose voice carried the kind of worry that had hardened into frustration over time, her words spilling out in that careful balance between concern and impatience that only family members seem to master.
“You cannot keep living like this,” she said, not loudly enough to cause a scene but loudly enough that everyone within ten feet understood that this conversation had happened before and would likely happen again.
Leonard did not argue immediately. He shifted his weight, adjusted the paper bag in his hand—a bag of cat food he hadn’t yet purchased, as if he had already made a decision before stepping through the door—and then he exhaled slowly.
“That’s exactly why I need a cat,” he muttered, more to himself than to her, though she heard it anyway.
Evelyn pressed her lips together. “You fell last month. You forget your medication. The house is too big for you. You can’t fix loneliness with an animal.”
He tapped the pillbox lightly. “I forget because nobody lets me remember on my own.”
There was something in the way he said it—not defiant, not even particularly strong, but steady—that made the room feel quieter for a second, as if even the distant barking had paused to listen....
