Remembering the Trees

As long as I have been blogging, I've known today's post would be a remembrance of the senseless brutality that went down at our home on this day two years ago. Our neighbors to the south authorized a crew to fell a gorgeous bank of decades old, stately Leyland cypress trees on July 5th, 2006 . When we moved into our home in 1991 the trees, already mature, provided a treasured visual, hiding an old chain link fence which had been the property line until these beauties grew to cover the man made metal with rich evergreen. The older lady on whose property the trunks emerged from fertile earth was the owner of these evergreens; she had them professionally tended; trimmed and shaped through the years. The north facing side of these Leylands was ours by default, a gift that blessed our yard with privacy, the soothing sound of wind coursing through loosely woven, yielding pines, and glorious shade from harsh, beating sun of long summer days. I know these trees were meant to live in this special place for many years; they were free of disease, at their peak, and providing as all trees do, the precious oxygen that sustains we who breathe.

I remember when new neighbors purchased the house from Nancy. We could see all the changes, small and large going on with the home and the front yard plantings. Bent on personalizing their new home and taming the surroundings, they proudly marked the property as belonging to Mr. and Mrs. It wasn't long before they confirmed our worst fears; to them the decision was a a simple "we need to inform you of our plans-- we are having the pines cut down". I was horrified and dragged Mrs. into our backyard to see for herself how this lovely line of green created the mood for our yard. Her response was to show me just how "ugly" the trees were from their side with bald trunks extending up four feet before showering their yard with the same green bank. She and Mr. didn't like the trunks of the trees; they were unsightly and besides, as the knew owners, they had plans for their yard; to tame it of the wildness that had been Nancy's style. Nancy had planted large flowering rhododendrons in front of the Leylands and the lower branches of the evergreens were cut to make room for the growth of Seattle's finest spring bloomer. This was Nancy's choice but when the new neighbors ripped out those "ugly rhoddies" shortly after moving into their new home, the bank of Leyland cypress on their side of the yard was left sporting the scar of years spent bending to provide space for flowering plants. To be sure, their side of the Leyland bank was less beautiful than ours.

I begged, pleaded, offered money, and shed tears in front of both Mr. and Mrs. to have a change of heart. They voiced lofty plans about what they would do with this freed up space, none of which I could understand. Certainly the heavy root system of these trees would preclude planting anything of substance for many years. They also shared the design of the "great new fence" to be erected on the property line, a replacement for the natural border of trees. Grotesque was all I saw, with lattice work added to the top of the fence for more height and privacy. But having no rights to these trees (where the trunk lies, so lies the ownership), there was nothing short of emotion that I could offer to the situation. I played the only card I had in the deck but there was no winning.

Weeks passed and the quietness between us gave me wisp of optimism that their destructive plans might have changed. But then, they announced the date for the deed; July 3, 2006 and allowed that this was a done deal and non-negotiable. Enraged and upset, my days were punctuated by little else than ranting at the fates, crying tears of incredulity, and wallowing in a place of impotence. What was to be, would be and there was nothing I could do but adapt. I remember feeling great responsibility for these beauties and fantasized that if I literally laid my body in the path of the chain saws on the day of demise, I'd be hauled off to an insane asylum which after awhile, felt like a very reasonable place to be. I was overcome by grief, as if someone beloved was on death row. Protective but powerless.

I remember the weekend of July 1-2; raw edged and consumed by emotion, my then 88 year old mother offered her comfort. There was nothing she could do to change what was to be, she said, but she could at least "sit with my daughter in this difficult time". She summoned Chris to drive her over to see me and simply be with me; we sat in the family room with windows facing out onto the back yard and watched those swaying innocents who knew not of what was to come. I cried and she was present for me, mostly wordless. Her common quote which to this day provides me a measure of peace was offered up that night as the only thing that might bring hope: "It's a long road that doesn't have a turn". I'd like to think that there is some justice for bad deeds, eventually. We just have to wait, patiently.

On Monday, July 3, the planned date for the the neighbor's heavy "yard work", the crew arrived. I was at work, steeled for the worst. Denny was at home, working on a summer law project and he called with updates throughout the day. I was terrified to come home, to witness the destruction. He allowed that it was worse to be in his upstairs office listening to the deafening sounds of saws. He was right; it would be harder to be a witness.

Then, the reprieve. The crew had been working on the bank of Leylands on the opposite side of the neighbors yard and late in the afternoon, Denny heard Mr. say to the workers, "Thanks, job well done. Take this case of drinks (beer?) and Happy 4th of July". Denny's observation was that this was a goodbye to the crew. We had to wonder if Mr. had had a change of heart and miraculously decided to spare the trees on the north side of his property. But, deep down there was no trusting this fantasy although the brief consideration was akin to the unrealistic high we get when we pull a scratch ticket out of the machine.

We proceeded with our July 4th plans; a backyard BBQ with Chris, Laura, a few of their friends and a couple we invited for dinner and the fireworks display, a 5 minute walk from our house. The trees were there, standing tall, whispering in the wind, cooling the yard. I knew deep down, even without the neighbor's confirmation, that this was the last night for these beauties. Did they know? How weird to think like this but I could not keep myself from tumbling into the despair that made all of living seem like an immersion in pain. It wasn't long before Mr. knocked on our door (after a request that he do so by my posting a note on his front door) , came inside, sat in our living room while our guests ate hamburgers and fries on our deck and confirmed that "the crew" would be back on Wednesday to "finish up". Mr. saw me cry again, I pled mightily, offering up my last salvo, hoping against hope to appeal to a tender side of his soul that might respond to the deep pain of another. He didn't get it. And so, to make sure that he knew exactly what he was doing, I asked that he grant me a last wish. He had never seen the beauty of these trees from our side of the property line, had never once been in our yard and so I led him, past our guests and out the back door to "see". I refused to let him go through with his plans without witnessing the magnificence, the innocence, and acknowledging the effect of his decision. These of course were my descriptors; what he saw was a bank of pines that would soon fall to the whine of gas powered saws to make room for an eight foot fence. In the ultimate position of power, he could do little else but comply with my last request. And then, he was gone.

The 5th of July dawned cloudless. I had to work but as I've done before when I lost another tree to a neighbor's misguided saw, I stood before those trees one last time with eyes that could barely see through tears and tried to burn their image into my brain. I embraced the expanse, arms spread wide, impossible to hold because of the sheer size, and wept. Denny was wordless in his grief. We couldn't talk. Later he told me that it was torture to be at home listening to the sounds of men and saws and branches falling and the grinding as limbs were fed into the shredder. By the time I returned home, the work was done and the property line consisted of a length of cord covered by huge grey tarps, straining to be controlled by the evening breeze. The sound of tarp in wind and the new harsh light invading our kitchen and family room persisted for weeks until the fence people came to construct the new wall.

I have to wonder, as Robert Frost mused in Mending Wall, do "fences make good neighbors"? I think not.

Two years later the rawness, the sadness, the incredulity, and the pain persist. We have done nothing with the scar on the south side of our property. We've had many ideas ranging from planting another bank of Leylands to replacing the fallen by planting flowering shrubs. Whether it is inertia, lack of creativity, or simply the need to mourn until it is time to start again that keeps this fence uncovered, isn't clear. That the neighbors have done nothing of significance with the bald area on their side of the fence is at once annoying and gratifying. What happened to all the plans they had that demanded the removal of these trees? Perhaps the deep roots of the Leylands will take decades to rot, allowing the root systems of other plantings a chance to flourish. Who knows? These photos are shot through the crack and knothole in the fence to show the bare earth that once was home to the sturdy trunks of my wall of green. For now, the fence and the bareness remain a scar. Perhaps two years is long enough to mourn. By committing the story to words, there may be healing that allows new growth a chance.