Oh, Not That Tree!

The dog barked, and the baby woke up from her nap. I'd been sitting by the fire, and heard nothing. But then John called to me, "Did our tree just come down?"

I ran to the garage, and could see from the side door an ominous cloud of new eucalyptus growth -- sideways across the driveway. Going out the side gate (which would be at the far left on this pic) I saw a wall of Downed Tree that went well into our neighbor's front yard.

Now, of course I said, "Shit" when I saw this, but the very next thing I said was "Thank God!" -- because Alex was away at work with her car, and Bernie and Lil had gone out to the ranch to feed the horse ... and so neither car was in the driveway.

I went next door to let the neighbors know I'd have to go through their yard to get out, and we all milled around, looking at the carnage in awe.  The neighbor used her phone to call Steve's Tree Service, and though he was tied up at another job, he promised to be at our house as soon as possible to get us a path to the street. That's what you see in the picture -- taken after he'd cleared the sidewalk and a narrow walkway on our drive.

And now it's gone.

The tree has shaded the front of our house from harsh summer sun for so long, been our respite on summer afternoons, kept us from having to look into the neighbor's yard across the street, been a haven for hundreds of birds who needed a residence at night.

What a wasteland.

Why did it fall? As it turns out, there was a vast amount of rot occurring in the tree at the juncture of its many branches. The heavy rains over the last few weeks prompted A LOT of new growth (such is the nature of the tree) and that, with the rain, proved too much weight to bear.

Just glad it fell when and where it did, instead of on the house or on people or on cars.

Don't Name Them

When we surveyed our pond one spring, we found that out of all our original goldfish, only Rosie was left. The fancy ones, Sully and Margaret, Swishy, Paris, and Face -- a Great Egret had been raiding our front yard and had eaten all our named fish.

A couple friends donated their goldfish to us, and our old crew had had some babies, so we had plenty in the pond once again. Alex turned to me as we watched them and said, "This time, don't name them, please."

I never have named the fish again, either. They are all singly or as a school, "Fish." They come and they go; raccoons and egrets and cats take them as they can, and babies are born, dark and tiny, growing into orange delightful swirls.

This picture is of the podocarpus gracilior that shaded the south side of our house.

Yes. Past tense.

We have a rat (or two) in our attic this year, and after lengthy arguments for months with the pest control company rep, in which I refused to cut this tree down because it shaded so much of the house from the fierce summer sun, I walked down the narrow side "yard" and had a look at where rats might be entering the house, and a closer look at the tree.

Suddenly rats weren't really the focus of my concern. Where two other fern pines (that's the podocarpus) had been planted at the same time off the back patio, the trunks were about six inches in diameter. For whatever reason, this creature's waist was more than sixteen. It was poised and ready to take out the fence, and indeed, had already knocked off a couple roof tiles. Lush and beautiful as it was, rat or no rat, it had to go.

Last night, after the tree guy had given his estimate, I went out and took a pic of the tree, and got a bit teary. I love all my trees very much. This morning, when I walked out onto the street to see the result (the tree cutters arrived at 7:15 am) after it was gone, it was horrible, like Sherman's march to the sea. A desert. A wasteland. A bald-faced side of the house.

The view is now horrible from the inside of the house, too. A big bay window looks out on ... fence. No foliage, no birds playing in the evergreen branches, just boards.

We're leaning towards a few nandina in that area, to make a graceful foliar display year round, but I will always miss this ... Tree.