Once, the honey locust was a working companion, not a decorative afterthought. Its twisted pods, once treasured like candy, sweetened water into crude drinks and soothed cravings when sugar was scarce. Seeds roasted over coals became a bitter, comforting brew on lean mornings, while its dense wood braced wagons, fence posts, and tool handles that had to last or lives would fray around them. Even its bark and pods, coaxed into suds between calloused hands, carried away the day’s sweat when soap came dear.
Now most people know it only as a street tree, its history stripped away like fallen leaves. Yet it still feeds birds through winter, still hums with bees in spring, still throws a dappled shade over soil that would scorch without it. To remember the honey locust is to remember that usefulness can hide in plain sight—and that forgetting is a choice.
