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| My little Stonehenge |
The first week of April, I surveyed the neglected
tree line along our dirt road, stood akimbo, and inhaled a deep breath of
reality.
“It will take weeks
for me to remove the mess with my pruners and your Sawzal,” I later reported to
Mel. “Let’s call James.”
He agreed.
Several days later
at 8 a.m., James, tall and thin with a black beard and teeth white as the
bloodroot bloom, parked his truck and machinery in our driveway. A young man
assisted James as I approached and welcomed them.
“Good morning! This
is Daniel,” James said.
I shook Daniel’s
hand. “Thanks for helping James. Let me know if you need anything,” I said, and
left them to their work.
While I returned
emails at my desk, I relaxed with a sense of relief. Yet, hired help confirmed the
fact my body can no longer sustain the labor of pulling up invasive vines from
the earth— a new-found sport thirty-four years ago when Fritz Builders
constructed our house.
I recalled the drizzly,
chilly day Mel and I rented a hole digger for planting trees on our property.
Mainly evergreens. Three dawn redwood, Metasequoia glyptostroboides,
tributes to Kim, a friend who introduced me to the gorgeous attraction in her suburban
front yard.
I’d forgotten how the
three fiery, perfectly shaped red maples, Acer
Rubrum, came to grace the hind part
of our property. One, the red maple I’ve christened “Storytelling Tree” for
whenever the spirit of story moves me or a visitor, stands nearby the fire pit.
(Children seem to prefer chicken stories to any other.)
The red maple is native to North America and a member of the Sapindaceae
(soapberry) family. The species comes in second to the Cottonwood as the
fastest-growing on our land, and in the Eastern United States. Although the
wind in cottonwood leaves sounds alluring, the bothersome cotton
the Populus deltoids sheds dares me
to curse.
A great-great
granddaughter of Larken McCoy, a logger-farmer-builder who cleared his land and
built his two-story homeplace in the McCoy Bottom along Peter Creek, Kentucky, I’ve
inherited a bit of his spirit. However, I’ll endure those cottonwoods, leave
their fate to the owner who follows our steps on this homestead.
By the way, James returned yesterday with his
wife Ashely to complete the job.
“Where’s Daniel?”
I asked.
“He had a previous
commitment,” James said. “He’s working seventy hours a week because our trade
can’t find enough help.”
If only I were
younger, I thought.
“James, I found a
fine boulder where you’re wrapping up this morning. When you’re finished, could
you help me move the boulder with our dolly?”
“Sure.”
Ashely smiled. “James’
mother would ask the same thing.”
Dear Reader, James
moved not only that beautiful boulder, but three, to the entrance of our
driveway.
“There’s large
rock other there, do you want it?” James asked.
“Yes!”
He set the rock atop
a boulder. “There!”
I smiled. “My little
Stonehenge.”
A monument to my
ancestors. Loggers. Farmers. Builders.
