The catbird seat has been ejected.
After the looting, there was little to prevent us from ripping that baby out, and this morning, the man hooked up the chains and gave her a few good snaps. Easy peasy. The million pound root ball is still mid-yard, angsting him, refusing to be coaxed back towards it’s hole so the man can separate out all that good black dirt, but the big job is done. The tree is out, the office has a panoramic view and a rockin’ breeze, and this afternoon it’ll bake like my mom in the ’80s sun in here. All is well. I’m not thrilled about that baking part, but it really doesn’t matter. That was one unhealthy tree, and more of an eyesore than even I can gracefully put up with. He’s housed catbirds before, this arbor vitae, as well as a few seasons of insane stalker cardinals, and I will miss the cozy neighbors this guy provided through the years, but it was time for him to be put out of his lanky, sad misery.
Also, there was the question of foundation involvement. The unknown of the romance between root and concrete block. It was making us a little nervous. If we were more prudent folks, we’d have whacked it off at ground level and let the roots rot away before inspecting any underground shenanigans, but as we’ve really been enjoying the thrill of buckthorn pluck-age, we decided rather to continue the run, and deal with the consequences later.
Thankfully, the sum total of the consequences of our hasty action seems to be that root ball out there taunting my husband, and the 3 metric tons of dirt trailed out between it and its former home. Our arbor vitae chose not to thrust roots in the direction of the house, and thankfully avoided contact with the concrete like it was poison. It’s shallow system was lopsided, mirroring the lopsided branching system one grows when one is planted a foot away from a house. Who would do that? What kind of… a-hem.
Anyway… Despite our true-to-form brutishness, there is not a giant hole currently looking into our basement craft room. And for this I am grateful.
So the tree is out. The bulk of it has already been lopped by the chainsaw and chucked into the woods near the lower fire pit. As we speak, the root ball that was previously asserting its heft against all the mechanical means of the hubs, is miraculously being pounded free of it’s earthen cloak, in the hole. I have no idea how he traversed that full rod’s distance back to the scene of the crime, but the incontrovertible truth is that he now whacketh at the mass, in the hole. Mysteries abound.
There was little evidence of the looting under the tree, save one little blue egg, sucked clean of it’s contents. Did the cats get the catbird? Possibly. They’re not so smart though, our cats. I just don’t know if they’re wily enough for that. I suspect a vagrant coon to have stopped in for a little midnight nibble.
It should be noted, I suppose, for accuracy, that this morning’s pluck-age was a he-we project, not a we-we project. I was called into action only momentarily, as a foot for the accelerator, as the man experimented with physics. Didn’t go so well, and I returned to my new airy office perch. Apparently I was holding him back.
If you need me, I’ll be enjoying the breeze,