Look what I came home to this week...
Yes,
a stonking great big pile of beautifully aromatic woodchips, blocking my
driveway. How so?
Recently
I had to have a very large tree cut down, in order to avoid a neighbourly
dispute. The tree, which my parents identified as a lily-pily, was huge, going
upwards to the sky. Taller than my house, dense and dark. Birds roosted in it
and chattered away as day drew to a close; it cast cool shadows over the house
during the summer. It wasn't a beautiful tree, but it was a tree.
After
I was asked to cut it down - I shan't go
into the reasons or the situation, but friends, let me tell you, I cried. For
days - every time I left the house for work and passed the tree; every time I
came home and passed the tree; every time I thought about it, I would cry. I
would go to bed and my thoughts would return to that tree, and I would cry. I
didn't plant this tree, but it was a tree, an old tree, a living tree, and I mourned
its oncoming demise.
I
get very emotionally attached to my plants. I suspect it's because I have no
pets or children; instead I transfer my
love and care to the things I grow. Some trees, like the avenue of seven birch
trees that my father helped me plant, or my new plum tree, mean infinitely more
to me than any possible human (except my parents). The pink zepherine rose bush
that my parents bought me a couple of years ago: when half of it got snapped
away in some dreadful winds a few months ago, i came inside and heartily cried
for its damage. Work might be frustrating, taxes and bills stressful, but the
loss of any green thing in my garden will upset me dreadfully.
As
quickly as possible, my dad organised G, an arborist who removed or cut back
fire-damaged and dangerous trees for dad after the bushfires. I've met G a
couple of times, so knowing him made me feel comfortable and
reassured that my tree would be in good hands.
So
one afternoon, G arrived, and over the course of a couple of hours, reduced the
tree by about two-thirds its original height - it's now probably about two
metres high, perhaps not even that. It was fascinating watching G work, especially
towards the end when he was trying to shape the remaining bare trunks as best
as possible. The difference between an arborist and a tree feller he told me,
was that an arborist cares about the tree; a tree feller cares about the
people. I liked that - I knew that we would meet my neighbours' demands but
that my tree's life and health were his first priority; that it would be in
good hands and would hopefully reshoot come spring; that these bare stumps may
flourish back to life, green and happy.
G
would cut down the tall limbs; when safe to do so, I dragged them away and
hauled them in two piles on either side of my driveway. He remarked that I was
a hard worker, but honestly, would I stand there and just watch someone work?
I'm not strong by any means, but I like doing 'yard work' and it made me feel
useful.
A
few short days later, as promised, G came around while i was at work and
reduced the stacks of leafy limbs to this pile of fine leafy woodchip. It was
actually very exciting - I mean, what gardener doesn't like mulch? For me, it
was the silver lining in the whole affair: I may have had to cut down a tree,
but i could use its wood and goodness around my garden. There's a lot of light
and warmth coming into the house now - great at this darkening time of year;
though we'll see what that means in the hotter months next summer. And I've
cleared out all the rubbishy plants that were beneath; I'll keep it clean and
bare save for a lot of daffies and jonquils and grape hyacinths that need
little attention but are so cheerful.
So,
you know what I've been doing lately: shovelling and barrowing the
woodchip out of the driveway. My biceps and back are groaning, and there's been
copious cups of tea to power me thru. But something good has come from a distressing situation.
Below, the woodchip pile plus the cut down tree at left