It turns out that the tree I've spotted along my bike root and admired for its height, tulip or trumpet shape, tough-ass leaves, and graceful droop is, in fact, American elm. This boggles me: I thought they were extinct.
Lyme Street used to run through a tunnel of elms, but they all died by, I expect, the '50s. Now it's overlaid with utility lines, much less attractive. And hotter.
ÜberBoss is certain any healthy, thriving elm I have seen must be sprayed early and often. I prefer to believe people don't use fungicides, at least not as many households as have these trees, nor the city on the several trees on public property, so was ready to believe they were another species, despite what I deduced from various identification guides. But sprayed or not, they're elms.
Then I looked closely at the tree in the alley because I was ripping out the not-ivy climbing creeper that's grown into it. It's an elm. An American elm, not a Siberian or Chinese. It's diseased, with beetles at least, and the fungus will follow in the beetle-weakened vascular system.
This comes up because I want to plant an elm in the front yard, but not if it needs any kind of -cide to survive.