Yesterday, we had to have another tree taken down. This was a skinny oak, more skeleton than tree. Its removal leaves no real hole in the canopy. It left us slowly, which made it easier. 

While examining that tree, the neighborhood’s chief tree guy, Carmen, spotted another oak near the house, one that has much more meaning for me, one that the girls’ zip wire line used to run from, one that sits prominently in the middle of the yard.

“It’s half-dead now,” Carmen said, “Call me when the next half dies.” 

I take each downed tree personally. For me, a dead tree is a lost friend. For Carmen, a dead tree is more business. I call him the Grim Reaper. 

(Yesterday’s removal process at the top of the page, and a 2018 loss here.)