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.

A wintry afternoon—and a big little thing

 

Jordan's basket of lap robes.

Ah, Texas! It’s 71 degrees out, but the late afternoon sun has a definite wintry glow to it. Golden and lovely, but it speaks to me of colder temperatures. And the trees which last week still had lots of leaves are tonight almost bare. Tonight the low is 56 and tomorrow a cold front, with cold to continue through the weekend and a storm predicted for Christmas Eve. Tonight, we’ll take advantage of the sort-of-balmy weather and have a fire on the patio. It’s Tuesday night and our regular Tuesday-night neighbors are coming for wine by the fire. Jordan now has a colorful basket of blankets that she brings out to cover chilly laps. It may be 71 now, but it cools so rapidly once the sun goes down.

The big news around here today is that the free-standing basketball hoop and the tetherball, both of which Jacob has outgrown, are gone from the driveway. The tetherball went to a neighbor with young kids, and I think he just walked it home. But loading the heavy and awkward hoop on a pickup was a major production. I watched from my window as Jordan, Jacob, and the gentleman who came for it struggled to situate it in the truck so it would stay. From what I could see, the guy ultimately decided that bungee cords would be superfluous, so they worked hard to balance it. I hope he drove slowly and carefully to wherever he was going.

It’s not so much that Jacob has outgrown the hoop but that his focus now is so totally on golf. I would guess he manages some golf four or five days a week. His Austin cousin, Ford, on the other hand, is totally focused on basketball and has just made a city-wide team. So nice to see these boys find activities at which they can excel and which hold their interest. Ford’s older brother, Sawyer, has chosen bike riding (the gymnastic kind where he shattered an elbow) but his main love is really his guitar. And Kegan in Tomball is an extraordinary soccer player—he now has a kick coach.

I’m glad to have the driveway free and clear once again. With the basketball hoop lying on its side, it always looked slightly like a disaster area to me. Now a car picking me up can drive much closer to the cottage, and I don’t have to struggle with the holes and dips in our ancient driveway. We are notorious for having the worst driveway in town—built for skinny 1920s cars. Those of us who drive it daily (or did) can do it automatically, knowing just where to cut the wheel, but I have friends who refuse to try it and a couple who have given up in the middle of backing out and asked Jordan to do it for them.

Sophie misbehaved this morning, and that’s putting it mildly. The minute she was out the door, at seven-thirty, I knew we were in trouble. She exited barking. Apparently the squirrel network sent out word she was in the yard, and they gathered to taunt her. She runs frantically, yipping all the while, and she gets so excited her bark turns into a squeak. I’m fairly useless at going after her when she’s so excited, so there I was sitting in the doorway with a piece of cheese in my hand, futilely calling out “Cheese!” every time she came anywhere close to me. She didn’t care. She was in another zone. So Jordan came out and announced, “If I was you neighbor, I’d shoot your dog.” She got her in, and when Sophie, having not learned the lesson of the morning, wanted to go out again, I yelled. Yes I did. And then Sophie and I had to make up. And Jordan and I had to start the day over again. And I kept thinking that love conquers all—sometimes not at seven-thirty in the morning.

Barbecue tonight for supper, from Railhead. But from now on, we’re eating slim. Getting read for big feasts on Thursday and Friday. If you can’t celebrate with family, eating well is the next best revenge. Doesn’t exactly sound like one of Jesus’ teachings, but for this year it must do.

The Saga of a Skinny Driveway

And still it rains. After a welcome break, with sunshine, today dawned dismal and damp, with rain threatening all day. Along with the general unpleasantness, it made everything muddy and slippery, and therein lies my tale.

My house was built in 1922 (some records say 1926, but I won’t quibble over four years). One of it’s less attractive features is a skinny driveway with a slight jog in it right by the electronic gate. There’s also a curb on the right side, by the house, and a stiff lip on the left by the grassy strip between my driveway and my neighbor’s. It’s never bothered me, but several of my friends are reluctant to drive up it, and I have one or two for whom attempting the feat is such a disaster I simply cook lunch for them when we want to visit.

Today I had lunch with a friend who can do the driveway, with some trepidation, but won’t go beyond the gate. For reasons too complicated to explain that makes it easier for her to pull into my neighbors’ drive to get me—they don’t mind, but their driveway is unpaved gravel. Today I got into the car and she put my walker in the trunk and came to get into the driver’s seat. I saw a brief flash of her and then nothing. I waited, thinking she’d gone back to close the trunk or some such. But it was too long, and I began to fear she’d fallen (she is a lady of some age, as am I). I began to review options, but there weren’t many.

The best seemed to be getting out of the car to check, making my way around it by holding on, and then calling 911. Helping her up was not something I could accomplish—one of those times when I wanted to roll things back to three years ago or so to when I was spry. As I considered that, she got into the car. She had indeed fallen and struggled to get up without putting pressure on her knee, surgically replaced about a year ago. When I told her my plan, she said, “The last thing I want is for you to have gotten out of the car.”

Tonight, my Wednesday dinner pal, Betty, and I went to dinner. We’ve been doing that for years. When we first started, I used to pick her up, but for a long time now, she’s picked me up. She drives in and out of the driveway with concentration but no problems. When we came home tonight, I watched her back out so that I could close the electronic gate when she was gone. But she didn’t go. She backed, and then came forward, backed and came forward, finally came forward and was apparently stuck. I could see that the headlights were at an angle. Nothing happened for a long time.

Once again, I railed against my lack of mobility. I watched and worried, finally saw Jordan go down the porch steps to help. Still nothing happened for what seemed an eternity. Then, finally, slowly, the car inched forward. With my mind that instantly goes to the worst disaster, I decided she had busted a tire on that concrete lip. But no, the car slowly righted itself and began to back up.

It turned out Jordan drove it out to the street. Betty had gotten one tire over the lip and into the mud between the two driveways. Every time she tried to accelerate, the tire couldn’t get any traction in the mud. Our neighbor came out (Betty nearly hit his car, don’t know if he knows that), put something under that wheel, and between him and Jordan they got the car back in the driveway.

Jordan came in saying, “We’ve got to get another light out there. I couldn’t see anything, and I know what’s there.”

All’s well that ends well. Everyone is safe and unhurt tonight, no cars are damaged, and the worst is that my lunch friend’s raincoat needs to go to the cleaners. But we will be putting another light in the driveway. Blessings on Jordan and Jim Carmical, our good neighbor.