I opened the door. The sound was very loud, though the source was not visible. It took a few steps to realize it was coming from the house behind ours.
There, up on a long articulated lift, a man with a saw was trimming trees. Maybe that’s the wrong word – trimming. I suspect by the end of the afternoon, these trees will be firewood and mulch. You don’t go to the guillotine for a trim.
There are lots of trees between the Foxes and the neighbors In the spring, what’s left will hopefully fill the spaces.
It’s still sad.
There’s an expression, “Sometimes you’ve got to cut away the dead wood.” We scrupulously avoid that, when we can.
Nearly 18 years ago, when we moved into this house, an arborist came and assessed the trees in our front yard. We have some oaks standing 100 feet tall.
He pointed to one, a tall but slender tree, curved as if it had the wooden equivalent of scoliosis. “That’s going to fall,” he said, as we pondered the prospect of a tree poking through the roof of our nearly purchased home.
That tree is still here today. Still curved. Still glad to give us shade from the summer sun. We think about it any time anyone recommends trimming.
Maybe all this comes from my upbringing. To an apartment dweller, trees are foreign… maybe even exotic.
I will miss this handful of trees disappearing from the private space between two homes. They were here first. Maybe they should have squatters rights?