One of my neighbors decided to remove a tree in his yard this week. He decided that he didn’t want to deal with the hassle of raking up leaves, pruning and caring for the tree anymore. There wasn’t anything wrong with the tree, at least nothing I could see from my vantage point.
He started cutting off limbs of the tree the other night. At first it was just a few. And then the following day he cut all the limbs off and finally cut the trunk down to the same level as the ground.
Two days later he started trying to pull out the stump.m he hacked at it, dug and pulled on it and still nothing budged. He dug around it, he tired ropes to it and tried to use his truck to pull the remainder out of the ground. But the tree was old. And had large roots. Roots that went deep into the earth.
The man has appeared to give up on removing the stump. Today he put dirt on around the stump, threw more dirt down and walked away. He thought he could remove all evidence of the tree having ever been there. And yet the tree remains, evidence of the tree stands where the tree once stood. And that reminder will be what he has skirt around now every time he mows the lawn. So ultimately nature won out in this tussle for power.
The smell of something delicious, if you happen to be the four-footed one, can be found in a multitude of places. From mud found in the garden all the way to up to the neighbor’s tree all house see tantalizing aromas. Thick, tall grasses seem to hide special orders that can not be resisted despite what your human may say.
For me delicious aromas tend to come from certain places, like the kitchen or a bakery. Restaurants may tempt me the same as certain stores. But the neighbor’s tree has never offered me anything that smells delicious. And no matter what may be in the tall grasses, I’m okay not seeking out a tasty morsel from there.
Sure my attitude probably has me missing out on some things, but I’m okay with that, the same as I’m okay not eating bugs, at least not deliberately eating them. And I don’t care if the bugs taste like chicken or chocolate, I am okay on missing out if it’s a deliberate choice.
So when a friend invited us out to a new place to eat, one that served things like meal worm pizzas and cricket poppers, we did not hesitate. Nope not for me second. We politely declined. Because we, after all, are not like the four-footed one. And yes we know it’s a good source of protein, but we aren’t at the place yet where we can consider consumption of the bugs as an every day occurrence. And yes I know I eat bug parts every day, but it’s hidden from me. I’m okay with that. Because delicious aromas aren’t found up trees or in the grass, not for me.
There are poinsettias on the mantle. A Christmas fern peeking out here or there. A tiny holly plant in a bursting out of a snow mans’ stop hat and a Christmas cactus just ready to bloom on the table.
Soon there will be touches of Crimson on the tables, and swatches of green here and there. Eventually tiny white lights will be added to a tiny tree with silver balls and crystal ornaments. And if he gets his way, somewhere in a door way Beloved will hang some silly piece of greenery to meet the tradition of mistletoe.
Birdseed will be sprinkled outdoors, and branches will be smushed lower into the ground because that’s something he has always done. Puddings and cookies will be planned and cooked. Presents will be wrapped, stockings stuffed and drinks mulled.
And I, well I shall not get too caught up in any of it. I never do. Some cookies I will bake. Decorating I will leave for him. I haven’t wrapped a present in years and won’t begin now. (Gift bags are a blessing for those with joint damage!) Instead I shall watch as the smile that starts to fill his face grows a little bigger with each task until he simply cannot contain it anymore. That’s when I shall out presents under the tree and watch his glee turn him back into a small child if only for a few moments. That’s when I know Christmas is here.
Homicide was in the air this morning. A corpse was across the sidewalk during my morning walk. A most vicious death based on the hack marks found along the body’s trunk. I remember thinking, as I walked past the dead victim, someone clearly does not know how to use an axe properly. The four-footed one was not interested in the remains, so we simply walked past it as if the crime had never existed.
Except a crime had happened and try as I might, I couldn’t stop myself from looking over into the area where we had stumbled across the horror. Plus, the gaping hole in the ground basically called attention to the fact that something was amiss. Or rather something was missing. A huge, old stately tree had once claimed the spot where now only a hole remained.
Being that it was daylight, people were out and about so we wandered near the hole and talked to the home owner who had once been graced by the presence of the now absent tree. The home owner told me his son had agreed to “chop” the tree down. And in doing so made a huge mess of things including breaking a chain saw and cutting himself with an axe. All to bring down a tree so that his son might have a place to park another car.
The home owner said the professional who finally came and finished the hack of a job his son had started placed the tree around a hundred years old. A hundred years of living in silent observation suddenly cut off because someone wants to park his car closer to the house. Seems like a crime to me, but the home owner wasn’t too upset about it. Said with the tree gone he’d have more light in his house.
The four-footed one, by this time, was tired of playing with the chips of wood scattered about, so we headed home again. In a few hours only, the hole would be leftt as mute testimony to the life that once stood there. In a few weeks, once the hole is filled and tamped down, there will be no sign that the tree was once there. I hope someone lets the birds know
While walking the four-footed one lately I have found myself noticing all the beautiful colors gracing our walk. Flowers are happily competing with each other in riots of color and perfume with no shame or hesitation.
The four-footed one has not allowed the flowers to go unnoticed, any within her reach are thoroughly sniffed. She doesn’t seem to mind getting pollen on her either, unless it makes her sneeze. Sneezing is not her favorite thing to do, yet it doesn’t deter her from smelling the flowers.
I’ve also noticed a sudden crop of tree-houses popping up in rapid succession. I adore tree-houses, and these ones are luxury model tree-houses. Some of them appear to be mini-versions of various houses in the area. A few have porches and decks!
Growing up I can’t recall any tree-houses having porches or decks. Most had hastily tacked ladders to the tree and none of the ones I knew of were weather-proof. The tree-houses of my childhood are a far cry for one I saw tonight. This treehouse was sparkling white with blue shutters, a porch, a deck and a tin roof.
I may need a treehouse something along the lines of the one I just described. Or the one I saw the other day that was done like a red barn. For th record I never had a treehouse as a child. My father didn’t see a need for a treehouse ruining his trees and my mother was not a fan of trees or heights. Perhaps now it’s time to treat myself to one, provided I can find a tree that supports my needs!
Peaches remind me of warm summer days from my childhood when the days stretched in endlessly and trees and bushes offered all sorts of just snacks. I used to climb trees just to pick peaches and then sit in the trees eating the fruit and letting the juice drip down. There was never any time nor need to wash the peaches, just pick, wipe and enjoy. To this day I have been known to sit and eat three or four peaches as a meal and be satisfied and happy.
Beloved went to market and came back with a massive amount of peaches which were, as he put it, econimical to buy. Or as I’d say, on sale, really good sale price too. It surprised me a bit because it was more peaches than I could eat in one sitting and Beloved is apparently not a peach lover. I know, sometimes I too wonder if he is human. Who can’t love a ripe, sweet, juicy peach I ask?
But Beloved adores peach jam, pie, crumble and Dutch babies. In other word if the peach has been cooked they are okay in Beloved’s books. Clearly that was his plan when he bought the box of peaches as he put them down and asked for pie, or crumble or even crazy peach biscuits southern style. He held up a package of prosciutto and asked for some to be wrapped around peach wedges for grilling.
So I will be up to my elbows in peaches, and I won’t comment on Beloved stealing a few slices here and there once they have had the skin removed! Now if someone can teach the man how to climb a tree…
He climbed and clipped the morning away. He pruned and plucked until the afternoon was finished. He tidied and cleaned until even a casual glance would be able to see th fruits of his labor.
He probably spent the night soothing sores and aches. A small price, some might say, to pay for that kind of work.
I can admire the neat lines, the beautiful shapes and whimsical flair he brought to his tress and bushes. Sure they are lovely to look at, but I wonder why my neighbor feels such a need to have a perfectly shaped cedar tree or a completely round bush.
It’s not exactly natural to form shapes such as Dolphins or spheres out of trees and bushes. Sure it’s whimsical, it’s different, it’s nice to look at. But no matter what you say, you cannot convince me that it’s natural.
And the strangest thing of all is that he will be repeating this process over and over again if he wishes to maintain neat, trim lines and amazing shapes. I guess it’s a bit like shaping your eyebrows, you have to stay on top of that or it quickly becomes an unkempt mess.
Now don’t get me wrong, I appreciate what he does, bu I also like the trees to be, well, natural in shape. And naturally that doesn’t require a great deal of human interaction because, it’s, well, natural.