tree surgery

Photo by Callum Parker on Unsplash

The tree surgeons came round yesterday. A long-awaited visit. They took down the gangly eucalyptus at the back of the back the garden. The tree was pretty but I wasn’t particularly attached to it by the end. Not since it started growing sideways and resting its elbows on the roof of my writing shed like a drunken unwanted lunch guest. Not since I’d had to get up on a step ladder and hack away at the branches so the boys could play basketball. Not since my kind uncomplaining Spanish neighbours began wincing at the sight of it overhanging their patio obscuring the warmth of the sun.

I was fond of the eucalyptus— I tend to grow fond of almost anything over time, a quality I’ve learned not to rue in myself — but in the end I was happy to see it come down. I don’t like killing things, lovely things especially, but neither do tree surgeons. They love trees, but get on with the job. The eucalyptus’ death was a necessity, a euthanasia-by-extension. The tree could have gone on for longer, perhaps ever, but by the end I knew that on some level even it knew it needed to go. I don’t second guess the decision.

I’d known it would have to go since the day we moved into this house several years ago. Eucalyptuses are desert trees, industrious immigrants. They’re thirsty fuckers, insatiable. On the surface they’re appealing — spindle-shanked, winsome, smooth grey skin, branches like feathers. They were trendy in London for a while, but the trend, as they say in fashion, is “finishing.” It’s finished. The reasons are not moral or aesthetic but practical. In cramped urban environments, outside the sun and space and vacuum of the desert, eucalyptus trees cause chaos. They’re vexacious, relentless. They rarely die or fall over because their roots grow as far down as far as they grow up (or to the side). You could call them insidious, tenacious or beautiful; doesn’t matter. When they hit clay, which everything that ventures into the darkness of London eventually does, they just do whatever the hell they want. And that’s when the real problems start. For fences. For plumbing. For sheds. For writing. For playing children and kind neighbours and sunsets. For people just trying to live modest happy lives. Left to to their own devices, overtime, eucalyptuses destroy foundations. We hadn’t got there yet, not nearly, but I’m not an idiot. I love trees, but I love living in a sturdy house far more. It wasn’t even a choice.

The butchering took only took a couple of hours. The crew was hot. I mean obviously. Tree surgeons are always hot. It’s a rule. A rule to which there are no exceptions. It’s something to do with the combination of chain-saw welding brute strength and a lanky, ambling hippyishness. Tree surgeons literally climb trees for a living. Or maybe it’s that that they smell of motor oil and wood chips? Most of the ones I’ve met in passing are also interesting people— young artists and yogis, musicians, creative Millennials hyphen-types. I get them. I get the appeal of the job.

My friend Kuki is licensed to fell. She’s a singer-song writer, lives part time in a caravan in Devon, plays in a band with her brother. They’re close, having grown up being homeschooled in the back of van across India, Spain and Morocco. Female tree surgeons are hotness-squared and Kuki did the leaf blowing in a shirt dress which made her look like a sexy tree nurse.

In the end the crew was better than hot. So much better. They were polite and efficient. They put my mind to rest. They got on with job and when they were finished they swept up the eucalyptus detritus my kitchen, then my front and back garden, without being asked.

The stump will have wait, and eventually rot, which is fine because old stumps are good places for thinking and reading, which is practical. (There’s more sun now.)

Jim, the crew boss, had to charge a premium, for which he was apologetic. It was on account of the fact that eucalyptuses have poisonous sap and the dismembered limbs have to be driven to the five miles outside the Outer Hebrides to be disposed of legally so they don’t infect everything they come into contact with. He explained and I nodded. Makes sense.

While I was paying Jim with all the cash I don’t have I made a joke about my Tree Surgeon Rule — a rule drawn from a private observation I’d naively believed was mine alone. He chuckled. Said, “Yeah funny, we call ourselves ‘the thinking woman’s firemen.’”

I laughed, but a little part of me died at that moment.

If tree surgeons ever make a charity calendar I’ll be heartbroken. If such a thing already exists, I’m begging you don’t tell me. I won’t survive it.

I don’t regret the eucalyptus. Everything finishes or gets finished in the end. In the meantime, we might as well live. Might as well laugh and enjoy what we have. Get on with the job. Enjoy the sun on the stump.