It seems everyone is cutting down trees these days. It may have to do with our northern latitudes; we don’t want anything obstructing the rare rays of the sun that happen upon these corners.
Last summer, I finally got around to cutting down and uprooting the unkempt bushes that the former owner of our then apartment had planted decades ago, and which had been growing wildly for the last five years or so. During the process, I came across a sapling maple tree that had managed to take root in the tangle of struggling bushes and decided to let it stay. It grew just at the corner of our terrace, and I happily envisioned a tall maple tree in that very location some years ahead. You see, I happen to like trees.
We no longer live in our then apartment. The new owner has not quite moved in yet, though. And then today, as she is out of town, she called to ask if we could water the flowers she has put in the pots on the terrace. Sure, I drove over and watered away, throwing sideway glances at the maple tree shining with virgin green in the spring sun. I thought that its chances of continued survival had been diminished now that it had a new ‘owner’, so I decided to take action and got out a spade from the basement and dug it up, put its long lanky length into the car and drove it home to our new house, dug a hole in the front garden and put it in, heaved heavy and pungent earth on top of its slightly damaged roots, and continued watering away.
Looking at it now, in dusky darkness, it’s not looking entirely happy at having been uprooted like this; its leaves are drooping, but it has kept its vibrant green. I watered it once again earlier this evening, and I’m crossing my fingers that it will survive the transition. Because if it does, it has a long and prosperous life ahead of it. I’m fully intending not to move again for at least 20 years, and I like trees.
