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TIMBER!
Gardening by proxy can be a very frustrating occupation, but there comes a time when that’s how one does it. And at 80 years old, I’ve reached that time. I once had a big and ambitious flower garden surrounding my house, filled with annuals, perennials, bulbs, shrubs, vines and trees. A network of brick paths connected most points of the garden and there were three sitting areas where I and others could relax and enjoy the changing seasons. And I’d done all of that pretty much by myself with some help from my then young son.
But that was years ago, when I was in my 40s, 50s, and 60s.
Now I’m 80 and lucky to still be able to toddle around with my cane,
much less dig flower beds, squat or kneel to plant and trim and weed, or
whack back encroaching vegetation. So the garden has pretty much “gone
wild” on me, with the paths and patios being maintained only through the
intercession of a hired yard man and the flowers surviving mostly in a
small assemblage of terracotta pots up by the back door where I can
reach them to water and trim.
Don’t get me wrong – this kind of gardening also brings
pleasure, though mostly of the standing and looking kind. I still see
the seasons changing, watch the birds flocking to feeders and squirrels
scampering about in the treetops (and sitting on my kitchen window ledge
to eat sunflower seeds from feeders). It’s a contemplative garden where
the exercise is mostly mental.
However, sometimes mental just doesn’t cut it. Literally. A
couple of plum trees, one planted 30 years ago, the other a volunteer
from the fruit of the first, both died fairly recently. And have been
standing out there in the center of the yard, of use primarily to
woodpeckers for pecking and squirrels as a shortcut from taller nearby
trees to the house. Something needed to be done; and I was quite sure it
wasn’t going to be done by me.
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Photo of the bottom part of the trunk on the larger plum tree, before it had completely died.
Fortunately my yard man also is an experienced tree trimmer. So
he offered me a package deal on the two dead trees and I took him up on
the offer.
A couple of weeks ago he showed up (by appointment) with
equipment and a friend to help with the cleanup work. Mind you, these
weren’t little fruit orchard trees – the older, larger one was 25 feet
tall and leaning against my power line that runs from the back of the
yard. A potentially tricky situation. And one I wasn’t sure I really
wanted to watch while it was being done. So I chickened out (chickens
always get the short end of the stick in figures of speech, including
this one) and decided to just sit at my desk and not look. Just listen.
I’m not a novice at having trees removed. In the 35 years
I’ve lived here in this woodsy neighborhood I’ve had three full-sized
shade trees plus chunks of a couple of others removed. Those jobs
involved a virtual circus act, with long, tensioned cables, men in
harnesses dangling from upper limbs, tightly coordinated teamwork and
genuinely scary possibilities. In one case half a 90-foot-tall elm had
fallen into my yard and was resting on my chimney and roof edge. In two
others an equally large ash tree had fallen on my car in the driveway.
Yes, that happened twice, with two different cars. Some folk are slow
learners. The two plum trees were not likely to provide anything like
that level of anxiety. But on the other hand my anxiety resilience isn’t
what it used to be.
So I sat at my desk, determinedly looking at my computer screen and not out the kitchen window down the hallway. But listening.
Thirty minutes of more or less continuous chainsaw racket
without any shouts (from the yard man) or screams (from his female
assistant) and then there was a relatively low-key CRACK, CRUNCH. And
the tree was down. (The bigger tree.) At that point I figured it was
safe to go look.
At first glance it was hard to tell there had ever been two
largish trees in the center of my garden. There was just a small tangle
of tree pieces, rapidly being cut up for disposal. I had asked that the
tree debris be chopped small and tossed under the huge hedge on the side
of the yard where, hopefully, they would decay into new soil rather
than being hauled off and wasted in the gigantic landfill on the edge of
town. And so it was. By sunset, aside from a few bruised and broken
goldenrod stalks, I couldn’t tell there had ever been a pair of plum
trees in my yard. Sad, but also happy. They had lived full tree lives
and had gone to an honorable resting place.
The yard man was also happy – no injuries and cash payment for work well done.
And now I can, for the first time in more than five years,
look out into the garden and not have the centerpiece be a pair of large
dead trees. Bad news for the woodpeckers (and squirrels). But they’ll
find other places to feed and climb. And all of them are regulars at my
feeder stations anyway.
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