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.

Why are we remodeling this bathroom?

I live in a 1922 brick house, solid, pier and beam, charming, and a bit worn around the edges. Recently, spurred on by family, I decided it was time to redo the bathroom—there are cracked tiles, the floor is those tiny hexagon tiles but some are chipped and there’s a crack across one portion. The built-in drawers on either side of a mirror speak of the house’s age and I would not for a minute get rid of them—but they are balky and difficult to close.

So today, Lewis and Jim Bundock, who have kept my house in good shape for twenty years or more, came to talk about renovation. We all had the same thing in mind, but they talked at length about bringing the house up to code—if we remodel, the plumbing pipes, old copper, have to all be replaced with PCV or whatever—major expense. Replicating that floor of hexagonal tiles would be labor intensive and therefore expensive—I’m not married to that floor. We would replace the old iron tub, its bottom now badly scarred, with a large shower with a bench, grab bars everywhere and two hand-held shower heads. The wooden drawers would be refurbished and possibly rebuilt. The medicine chest will be retained because it matches the drawers. The top of those drawer sections will have silestone or some similar material.

It won’t be cheap, but working on an older house never is, and I’m not a believer in cutting corners to save money.

But the biggest revelation to me was that Lewis, the Bundock I’m most used to dealing with, kept repeating, “We aren’t doing this for resale value. We’re doing it to make this the safest possible bathroom for you while you live in this house.” He labeled my bathroom now unsafe, principally because I have to step over the edge of the tub to get into the shower—even though they have installed grab bars.

I don’t think I’ve come to grips with the eight weeks it will be under construction, and I will be confined to the half bath off my office. Nor the displacement of my cosmetics, etc. Nor the dust and dirt that will result. But I’m excited about the outcome.

This was also Christian’s birthday, so we had a celebratory dinner of veal scallopini (a recipe I’d never tried but really liked), Christian’s green beans (with bacon grease, shh!, bacon bits, scallions, and vinegar) and salad with a new cilantro/lime ranch dressing I found in the market. Plus a chocolate cheesecake which I intended to politely decline and ended up eating a fair-sized piece. So fun, so good. Happy Birthday, Christian! Forty-three is not old.

My catastrophes continue

Earlier this week, I tried to open one of the French doors to my study--it was stuck, swollen I presume by the humidity. I did what my contractor told me--pushed down on the handle, in order to push in. Only the handle came off in my hand. This is a catastrophe on several levels--the doorknobs are antique, so you can't just go to the hardware and replace the broken part. The study is where I leave Sophie when I'm gone and she doesn't want to be outside--she's definitely an indoor dog. She knows how to bang one door open unless I put several strong rubber bands linking the two doorknobs (classy system, don't you think?). Lewis Bundock is supposed to come back tomorrow with an electrician to install the new TV in the back room, and he'll bring a part he thought he had at home for the doorknob. So wonderful to have someone who takes care of my house and knows about old houses (mine was built in 1922).
I mentioned on Facebook this morning that a brand new 16 oz. container of cottage cheese jumped out of the refrigerator and flew all over the kitchen. I put Sophie in the office and cleaned it up as best I could. Then she came along behind me and cleaned the rest. Some had fallen inside the fridge, and I thought I'd gotten it all, but tonight with the fridge open  I noticed a friend's seeing eye dog industriously licking at the bottom. Good thing I'm not a germaphobe.
This afternoon I mostly had dinner cooked--lemon potato salad, roasted corn salad, oven friend chicken (it wasn't crispy enough) and butter-sautéed radishes and kale. The latter was really an experiment and met with mixed response. But I was doing something in the kitchen--maybe swishing out the sink--and the bottom part of the faucet came off in my hand. The whole thing is unusable--leaks water under the sink and out onto the floor. Called the plumber to get my name on the list for tomorrow.
Meantime there were eight people for dinner--we resorted to plastic plates, paper plates for appetizers, and my neighbors took the silverware home to wash. I guess I can get by in the morning, but I'm so used to washing my hair the sink. And it's wonderful to have friends who take such things in stride. I'm feeling fortunate but tired tonight.