Tree hugging on Valentine’s Day

 

 

Chinese pistache when new.
In the background to the left, you can see
the large trees that line the driveweay

I think that I shall never see

a poem lovely as a tree.

“Trees,” by Joyce Kilmer

I admit it—I’m a tree hugger. But when you buy an older house, as I did thirty years ago, you don’t (or I didn’t) take the trees into consideration. Our house had a huge, old elm at the curbside by the driveway, a beautiful graceful tree that served as a signpost for telling visitors where we lived. I always had the fanciful notion that the tree anchored the house to the property; without it, the house might float away into space. I could not imagine losing that tree.

But the house was a hundred years old two years ago, so the tree probably was the same age. It had begun almost twenty years ago to drop an occasional limb. Once I came home late at night from a trip only to find the entire front yard covered by a huge fallen branch. Another time, it dropped a long skinny branch that had been dangling right alongside the curb. Christian worried about parking his car beneath it, though he loved the shade. We all worried about a branch falling on a schoolchild—the house is across the street from Lily B. Clayton Elementary School and watching children come and go is one of our extra delights.

There came the day that the city tree crew informed me the tree was rotten inside and hollow. Because it was in the boulevard between street and sidewalk, it is legally the city’s tree, and they said it had to come down. Jordan took pictures of the demolition, but I hid in my cottage not wanting to watch. With Christian’s help, we replaced it with a Chinese pistache—it’s a pretty tree, doing pretty well now and supposed to have brilliant colors in the fall (taking into account this is Texas and we don’t get a lot of fall color). The pistache will never be as tall and majestic as the late elm, but it is a tree, and I am grateful.

The house boasts two remaining large trees on the edge of the driveway, equally as tall as the elm we lost. They are sort of squeezed between the house and the driveway—perhaps, when planted, no one expect them to grow so big or the house to last so long. But they are a problem—they have pushed the driveway concrete up until only the hardiest of souls will attempt my driveway, and that’s a problem because people drive all the way back to the cottage to pick me up. For several years now, I have worried about what to do with these trees. They shade the house from summer heat, and I know that we need more trees to fight pollution—we surely don’t need to be cutting them down thoughtlessly.

When we had all the trees trimmed last month, I asked the arborist, and he recommended jackhammering up the concrete and replacing it with decomposed granite. I happen to have a good friend who is a mason, and he said he and his crew could get rid of the broken concrete, but he wanted to meet with the lawn guy about the granite. We met yesterday, and ideas went back and forth, with John, my trusted yard guy, recommending tearing up the old concrete and laying new. That didn’t sound right to me, but they assured me the trees would be fine. And so we left it.

This morning I called the arborist, and he said no concrete. A porous material so the roots can breathe, which makes a lot more sense to a tree hugger like me. So we still haven’t worked it out completely, but what I thought would be a simple thing has turned out to be complicated. And it’s once again on hold until I get everyone on the same page. I think Mark, the mason, is more comfortable with my return to my original plan; Jordan is not, because she’s looking at the convenience of using the driveway and appearance. I’m looking at saving the trees. The appearance of the driveway is second to me. The permanence of concrete is part of my hesitation. I figure if the granite doesn’t work out, we can go to Plan B. John seemed to say the granite might be all right for ten years. I reminded him I am eighty-five!

Stay tuned for updates, but my final word is that older houses always bring new problems. That said, I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.

Happy Valentines Day! As I write, I am waiting for the Burtons to come out. I understand we’re having steak and salad for dinner, having abandoned the idea of smashed potatoes to accompany. I’ve made a new Caesar dressing, which is a bastardization and I’m not sure about it, but I have house-made croutons and mini-ice cream cones for dessert.