I Fought A Noble Fight…

and I have the wounds to prove it.

Twenty-five white cedars arrived at the door yesterday ready for planting.

We, however were not.

There are were seven 40 year old cedar trees that had to be removed first.

The husband had started lopping off branches in anticipation of the Grand Removal, but didn’t get very far.
First thing in the morning I grabbed the big strong clippers and the telescoping ladder and had at them. The old trees weren’t too impressed with me cutting off their tops and arms, the appendages retaliated by slapping me silly. Thank goodness for the cold air that kept me in layers even at my sweatiest. I still managed to get covered in scratches and almost blinded myself several times.

Where was the husband?

Cramming a whole lot of work into a very short time frame.

So he could help remove and plants young trees?

No so he could cram some planting in before his long weekend at the other end of the country.

There I was at the top of the ladder, snipping away with full arm extensions at the snappy, resentful limbs I struggled to stay on top of the rungs as my balance was challenged by the retaliating trees. It would have been a sight for sore eyes -including mine after the swipes they barely recovered from.

By 11AM a line of tree stalks stood in a row pathetically broken awaiting their fate: complete destruction.

“Mwaaaahhhaa!”, I rubbed my hands together maniacally. “Almost there”, I thought. “Now to dig up the shallow roots”.

The husband finally showed up and began digging and hacking at the tree trunks as I cut up and bundled the tree top and arm debris.

An hour passed. The tree stalks continued to guard over the sweating, heaving body of a husband as he continued to dig and dig and dig.

“Frickem. Frazzem. Frackem.” he gasped between throwing shovelfuls of dirt.

Finally the roots gave way and the first tree was broken from it’s 40 year old earthly grip.

“I’ll come back later. I have a deadline.” he said walking away.

“Um” I questioned, demanded, implored and implied squeezing as many syllables out of the word as possible -gesturing to the rest of the condemned stalks.

He walked into the house.

I picked up the shovel and started digging out stalk number two. It didn’t have a very thick stalk or a very deep or wide root system but this tree was not about to move out. Forty-five minutes later I crawled in the front door.

“Wa…ter”, I whispered before collapsing.

Then the truck arrived with the fresh young things. They leaned up against the fence, smoking cigarettes and passing around a mickey sizing up the old stalks. The old stalks shook their heads.

“Kids today”, one said between gritted teeth.

I almost felt disrespectful toward the old standards, but got over myself quickly when I realized the young things would smoke and drink themselves into an early grave if we didn’t properly plant and nourish them with the good stuff before long. The clock ticked.

The husband returned as twilight hit, casting an optimistic glow on the yard.

“I’ll package up the twigs and branches, you dig” is what I meant to say.
“I hate this digging and shoveling and cutting stuff. Hate. It. Can’t believe I have to do all this NOW.”, is what came out.

“Gardening makes me crabby” I told the eight year old who was practicing dicing wood into chips with the clippers. The eight year old moved to the other end of the garden.

The sun began to set as the husband finished digging away at three more trunks, finally up-rooting them.

“Let’s plant now and see how far we get” he said freakishly enthusiastically.

So we did. We planted 11 of 25 before we came to the last thick stalk.

“Wake me up at 7AM”, he said walking to the house.

“Um” I replied, as before.

The next morning I shook the husband awake, “It’s almost seven. You have a date with a tree stump”.

I tried to stand up (an hour later), sore from the slaughter of the previous day. I walked into the kitchen and looked out. The husband was shaking the last stump violently, steam coming out of his ears.

An hour passed, I was reluctant to look out the window again but needed to know who was winning the fight. Happily, the husband had finished planting the rest of the row of cedars, had set up the soaker hose and was heading back to the house.

“Yay!” I yelled out the door.

He smiled triumphantly. I tried to raise my arms in victory but they wouldn’t go up.
Cedars: 25, Me:notsomuch.