About Tree Shade Care

What this work is made with

This page is not a story. It is a list of the things that grow the work here—tools, plants, and the hands that hold them. Gardening is a trade of small, stubborn things: a knife that dulls, a branch that snaps, a seed that waits.

The best lessons come from what survives.

This is Tree Shade Care, a place for the quiet work of soil and seasons. We write about what thrives, what fails, and why either answer matters. The objects below are what make that possible.

The things that do the work

These are the tools that shape the work: a pair of shears that have outlived their purpose, a wooden stake that splits when pressed too hard, a trowel that still holds the dirt of the first garden. None of them are perfect. All of them are necessary.

Pruning shears

A pair of Felco 2s, bought secondhand in 2017. The black handles are worn smooth, the steel jaws slightly bent from years of cutting through stubborn branches. The bypass blades no longer close fully—they’ve been filed down too many times—but they still make a clean cut.

They taught us that the best pruning is done when the plant is already bleeding. The first time they slipped on a wet oak branch, we learned to grip tighter, to angle the cut just right.

Now they’re kept in a bucket of linseed oil, even though the oil stains the wood and the bucket rusts every winter.

Cedar stake

A split stake, salvaged from a broken fence in 2019. It’s 2 feet long, the wood gray with age, the split running down the middle like a scar.

It was never meant to be this thin—someone sawed it too close to the knot—but it holds young tomato plants just as well as any store-bought version.

It taught us that imperfection doesn’t mean failure. The first time it broke under a heavy vine, we nearly replaced it. Then we realized the split made it easier to wedge into the soil, and the rough edges kept the twine from slipping.

Now it’s the only stake we use for anything under 3 feet tall.

Cast-iron trowel

A 1970s-era trowel, bought for $3 at a garage sale in 2020. The handle is cracked down the middle, the blade chipped at the edge from years of digging into rocky soil. The weight is uneven—one side is slightly thicker than the other—but it still cuts through clay like butter.

It taught us that the right tool isn’t always the newest one. The first time it bent when hitting a root, we thought it was ruined. Then we realized the bend made it easier to lever out stubborn weeds.

Now it’s the only trowel we take to community gardens, even though half the volunteers ask why we don’t use a nicer one.

Hessian sack

A burlap sack, repurposed from a feed store in 2018. The stitching is fraying, the fabric thin in places, but it still holds 50 pounds of compost without tearing. It’s been mended three times with twine, and the twine is now frayed too.

It taught us that some things are meant to be temporary. The first time it split under a load of manure, we patched it with duct tape—then realized the tape made the sack too slick for carrying.

Now it’s only used for bulk materials, and we double it up when the weight gets heavy.

What is not in the drawer

This work does without what slows it down. The things left out are deliberate choices, not gaps.

Behind the scenes

I am Emmett Northrup, the founder and editor of Tree Shade Care. I write about the work of growing things—what lives, what dies, and why either answer matters.

I came to this from a childhood backyard where my dad’s failed tomato experiments outnumbered the successes. He’d bring home seeds like they were lottery tickets, convinced each one could grow something extraordinary. Most ended up in the compost, but the stubbornness stuck.

Now I run this site to share the lessons from dirt, patience, and the occasional disaster.

This work has given me a permanent callus on my left thumb from gripping pruners too tight, and a habit of noticing how trees lean toward light in ways that look like they’re bowing. I can no longer walk past a garden without imagining what’s under the soil.

I’m here to write about the things that grow when you stop expecting perfection. The rest is just noise.

Why any of this matters to you

The objects above are why the pages here feel like they’re written from a real garden. The shears are still sharp enough to cut a story clean. The stake holds plants upright, just as these words hold together. The trowel digs into the truth of what works—and what doesn’t.

You’ll find no recipes for perfect gardens here. Only the messy, real work of watching things grow. If you’ve ever wondered why your basil bolts or your apple tree flowers but never fruits, you’re in the right place.