The Unthinkable Sophie’s Choice

The tree surgeon paused out in front of our house for a long time. Too long.

He’d been called to do a “health assessment” on our two large trees.
The one in the front is a behemoth. Big-boned, magnificent in her splendor, she’s an almost two-hundred-year-old ash tree we call Grandmother. She’s a legend in our neighborhood. Cars stop and stare. People visit her on purpose. Once, when I was watering, a man took out a tiny flute and played a song he’d written just for her. I swear to god.

The one you’re looking at now is Mother.

Mother is a Chinese elm that was planted so close to the house I cannot squeeze between them without losing a boob. But that was over eighty years ago and we’ve appreciated the shade she so generously provides our courtyard, that although advised otherwise, we’ve ignored any suggestion that she’s compromised the foundation.

Anyway, one of Mother’s roots had started to crack and lift the tile and seemed to be headed toward the house, prompting concern.

I talked with her. Everyday. “Don’t do this,” I warned, “Don’t force us to make a decision like this.”

Just to be clear, I know my role. I am just the latest custodian of these beauties. There have been several before me, and there will be more when I leave. “I know, I got a little house with my trees,” is what I tell anyone who visits us after they close their mouths.

The surgeon’s mouth wasn’t agape, he was too cool for such an overt display of awe, I mean, caring for trees is his job.
But you could see it in his eyes as he stepped back, taking in Grandmother’s canopy. He was impressed.

“She’s a beauty,” he finally said. “And she’s so happy!”

Raphael’s face broke into a broad grin, I exhale for the first time in months.
You see, California has been suffering through a sustained drought and I’ve been so worried about our trees and all the stress they’ve been under. If anything happened to Grandmother I’d just die, but not before we were run out of town by an angry mob led by a dude with a flute.

“Seriously, are they okay?” I asked.

I really wanted to know. Or did I?

If he came back with a grim diagnosis, what would we do? Cut them down? Cut them down? CUT THEM DOWN?!!!  See, I cannot even write the words. What kind of a sick Sophie’s choice was the universe handing us? Kill the tree to save the house? It was unthinkable!

“I’m not cutting this tree down!” I announced defiantly. My arms were wrapped around Mother as far as they could reach as our tree surgeon inspected the cracked tiles.
“Oh god no!” he responded in shock. I just about died of happiness. “It’s an easy fix,” he said and then went on to explain in  tree-surgeony speak, what sounded like a very complex series of steps we had to take to keep everybody alive and well.

“She hugs these trees,” Raphael told him as he wrapped up his visit.
“See, I told you. You’re gonna be okay,” I assured Mother while caressing her bark.
“And she talks to them too.” He was making that she’s so crazy face he makes when I do stuff like that in front of strangers.

“So do I,” the surgeon admitted. Of course he did.
I wanted to tell him I loved him, instead, I told him he had a good face. He took it well.

Carry on,
xox J

                                                                                          GRANDMOTHER