The Cherry Tree

I was wondering what I could write for my blog today. To describe my day would probably spiral into boredom and negativity, which I try to avoid and to describe my current feelings might get me into trouble. Instead, I'll briefly recount my tree-felling tale.

I live alone in a house bought by my mother for her parents (ie. my grandparents). My grandmother planted a cherry blossom tree in the corner of the garden about forty-years ago. It was a waif of a tree and I presume pretty in the spring.

Forty-years later it had become a monstrosity; it towered over the house, blocked out the sun and was basically an eyesore.

I obtained a quote to have it trimmed and brought under some sort of control. The “experts” wanted a little too much for their services, so I set about the task myself.

First, I climbed to the top of the tree and sawed. I continued to saw during every spare minute of daylight for a week. During that week, lots of people passed by, presumably thinking, “Why is this lunatic risking his neck up a tree?” One person even stopped to take a picture, but not one person offered to help.

After a week, the size of the tree had been vastly reduced. I now had a garden full of debris, which I set about clearing. At this point, a neighbour offered me a bow saw, as mine appeared blunt. He was right and the new saw was a lot more efficient.

Now I was happy. The tree was down to the main limbs, so job done. Then a stranger stopped by and enquired about the tree. He owned a farm , did some logging himself and was fascinated at what I had been doing. He offered to take down the main limbs.

Next morning he turned up with a side-kick and two chainsaws and we proceeded to fell the remaining trunk and limbs and sliced up the wood ready for splitting. I was hugely grateful and thanked them accordingly.

Over the course of the next week, I chopped, sawed, split and carried until finally I had amassed an impressive woodpile and I had a clear garden.

It was at this point that I became popular. Neighbours, who previously have never uttered a word, greeting or wave suddenly stopped by in their cars, walked up to me in the drive and knocked on the door – all enquiring about the wood. What was I going to do with the wood?

It's my bleepin' wood!

I still have the wood. I might sell it when it is well-seasoned, I might find a way to use it myself, I might even give it away, but I do not appreciate being treated as the village idiot for two weeks in order to become a cheap source of fuel.

I can be a pig-headed so-and-so at times! It also makes me smile that I am still climbing trees at the age of thirty-two.

☺ Keep smiling! ☺