One morning last year a guy from the Village made the mistake of pulling up in front of my house with a “tree” sitting in his trailer. I came flying out of my house, screen door slamming behind me as he was giving his immigrant (hopefully legal) employees directions to plant this hideous sappling on the parkway a mear twenty feet or so from the magnificant Norway that resides in my yard. I was 8 months pregnant and I am obsessive about my trees and HIGHLY opinionated as to what government morons do with the budgets they have been alotted.

“Excuse me!” I hollered at him. “What are you doing!”


As if it wasn’t obvious. He was going to plant that pitiful weed in full view of my living room windows and way too close to my already mature (and by mature I mean 80 feet tall and at least 100 years old according to old photos of our house) Norway.

Round and round we went, me barefoot and pregnant and he, thinking he could stand up to this five-foot-four tree hugger. When I inquired as to how big the tree would get he said, “forty feet” and to that I responded, (and I wish you could see me make the sarcastic gesture for it would make the story all the more hilarious) with a big open-armed “dugh” in the direction of my Norway. My way of saying, “Hello, you idiot! A forty foot tree is going to run right into the branches of my Norway!!”

To which he responded, “Oh that tree wont live that long.”

And I snapped back like only a pregnant Ang can that I had had an arborist here last year and he told me that this tree would outlive us all! His eyes gazing on it just about as loving as mine do. One tree hugger to another.

Mr. Village Employee then suggested he plant his weedy sappling along the parkway across from my garden to which I again pointed out, “DUGH, Why would I want one thousand dollars worth of roses SHADED by a forty foot tree??” (OK, it’s just more like two hundred dollars worth but exageration is good when dealing with government says my rebellious heart.)

Finally he got smart and said, “Well you dont have to have the tree at all!”
“Good!” I quipped, “Why didnt you say that in the first place?!! Give it to the house across the street. They can’t keep anything alive!”

Present day. Last night, just five minutes after Joel walked by it and into the front door my beloved, half-the-reason-for-buying-this-home, Norway was stuck by lightning as the three of us stood thirty feet away in the kitchen. With a shot of white light and a blast that made me think I was going to hear someone yell, “Allah Ha-muc-bah!” (That’s my phonetic spelling for God is Great in Arabic, like it?)

Pster didn’t even cry, Joel pissed his pants and I started bawling. I called my darling, fellow tree hugging Grandpa and described the wound, he thought it might be OK but who really knows what took place deep beneath the soil.
Two different certified arborists are on their way over today to access the damage.

Father please save my tree.