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.

Far-fetched musings on the soul and some snowbound games

My snow bunnies

I’ve been pondering why I feel such a sense of unease, disquiet about the demolition of the house in Austin. As Brandon said, I didn’t live with its creaky bones and failing sewer system. Although when he said if I lived in a house as old as that, I’d understand, and I had to remind him I have always lived in houses about thirty years older than that one. And maybe that’s part of it—I have an affinity for old houses.

It’s not just preservation, though I am a devoted believer in the importance of that, and I am distressed to see in Fort Worth modest bungalows from the ‘50s and’60s coming down to be replaced by condos and town houses and stealth dorms. We are losing a part of our history, and it grieves me.

But beyond that, I arrived at the notion that a house has a soul, at least a house that has been happily lived in does. By serendipity, I started tonight to read The Soul of America: The Battle for our Better Angels, by James Meacham. He quotes everyone from Jesus to MLK about the nature of the soul, but the line that grabbed me was, “the soul is a central and self-evident truth, what makes us us.” Some of us, maybe those like me with an overdose of imagination, talk about the ”feel” of a house. When I first walked into my cottage, I said it felt like a happy place—and so it has proven to be. But I have been in dark and dreary homes without soul, with nothing about them to speak of love and joy and happiness.

The house in Austin was not a particularly spectacular one, nor was it large, but it was comfortable. And when the kids moved in, it had a cold,unloved feel to it—perhaps it was the built-in furniture, a disastrous but thankfully short-lived fad. But my kids brought to the house two baby boys, a brand new marvelous kitchen, and hordes of family and friends for parties and good times. Those are the things that give a house a soul. And so now, it’s a bit sad to me to see it become an empty shell.

Oh, I know. The new house will be wonderful and exciting, and I can’t wait for that first-floor guest room—how many times did I climb that scary spiral staircase, something I no longer can do and never could with a suitcase. I’ll love the new house, but for now I’m a bit sad. But I tell myself, as I do about my long life, that I have good memories.

Another branch of my family is snowed in at Wolf Creek—22 inches last night. They occupied themselves playing in the snow, shoveling it off cars, making a giant snowman, something they couldn’t ever do in Texas.

You couldn't build a snowman this big

in Texas ever!

And me? I worked on edits to the Alamo book all day, except for a laughingly happy lunch with old friends at the Black Rooster. One of them brought me a rotisserie chicken breast, because she’d heard me complain once too often about wanting just the breast and not the whole bony chicken. Thanks for supper, Linda. Another good day.

Fort Worth: What a wonderful place to live

  Lunch downtown today with Nancy O’Shea (we go back more years than either of us want to talk about). It was a real treat. Nancy has lived downtown and now lives on the outer edges, so she is familiar and comfortable in what to me is often strange territory. First neat thing—Del Frisco’s has a “lift” for people like me. Like an elevator in a waist-high cage, it takes you from the foyer to the ground floor, where you can walk out to the outdoor tables.

I love eating outside there, looking at Sundance Square and all the people who daily take advantage of the benches, umbrellas, and wonderful views. It’s almost time for kids to be frolicking in the fountains, but still a bit cold. The square is surrounded by fascinating architecture, a blend of new, old, and faux old. There’s the building that houses Jamba (I’m sure it has a name), a tiny building dwarfed by its neighbors but made large by the cattle drive mural on its exterior. I can’t name all the others, but you need do no more than sit there and look up and around to realize that ours is a wonderful city.

For years, Fort Worth’s slogan has been, “Cowboys and Culture.” Nancy said she read there’s a move afoot to take the cowboys out of it because they no longer reflect Fort Worth as it is. I really hope that doesn’t happen. Cowboy culture—trail drives, particularly—shaped our city and gave it is distinct heritage. Today, Fort Worth is made special by that surprisingly comfortable blend of contemporary sophistication with western history. You can go downtown for upscale dining and music, and you can go to the North Side for stockyards history and chicken-fried steak. No other city like that.

Scattered throughout our city are pockets and bits of history—homes and buildings that have been saved from demolition, neighborhoods that have been lovingly preserved, a sense of treasuring the past that made us what we are today. Yes, we have lost some important buildings to demotion and new construction, and yes, we are building new, so many apartments I wonder who can possibly fill them, but I understand 40 families a day move here. But overall I think we’ve done a better job than many cities of maintaining the balance.

Shhh. Do you think I could discourage some of those 40 families? I don’t want our city to reach 10 million y 2020, which is apparently where it’s headed. I want folks to live in bungalows set back from the street, with carefully tended gardens and neighborhood stores. For years in my neighborhood, I was greeted by name at the cleaners, the vet, the liquor store, the grocery, even several restaurants. It’s still true a bit, but it’s fast slipping away.

I don’t think I’m a luddite. I don’t want to cling to the past and ignore progress, but I do like a happy blend of the two.

Go downtown soon. Eat in one of the restaurants that offer patio space on Sundance Square, or bring your own picnic and feed the pigeons while you eat. Gaze around you. We do indeed live in a wonderful city.