By Fran Dayan, 2007
Two years ago we
were looking for a place to move to from Berkeley, We found it in an ad “cottage
near a creek” falling in love especially with the enormous tall Oak spreading
it’s branches protectively over the little green house and a curvy path to it.
We brought our
cats who have devoured its wildness, the creek, the open space with trees and
squirrels talking. Bringing in the cats at night finally due to wild raccoons
or the occasional mountain lion citing.
When we first came
the huge trunk of that magnificent tree was simply in close proximity to the
house eve. The Oak so tall you had to lean way back to see the branches and so many
birds flew above chatting. Everyone who came marveled at it’s magnificent
spread of cool in the hot Sonoma sun.
I worried about
the branches breaking and hitting the roof in the wind or rain but the landlord
said, “I’ll give you $400 to do with it what you can. If you want more I’ll
raise the rent.” So we did some but not what is required of a 300-year-old King/Mother.
The other smaller oaks ringed it.
Two days ago we
saw that the tree trunk was slipping into the roof. It happened that quickly, a
large crack at the side of the kitchen window appearing, right opposite the
tree. The ceiling seemed to be bulging. That was Sunday.
Monday I phoned
the landlord who was in disbelief. “I will not hurt that tree, you will just
have to move out while we fix the house. I’ll come by later.” My Native
American neighbor said, ‘talk to the tree’ ‘Why are you so worried?’ that was
before she saw it. I was nuts, my reality challenged at every turn.
Later that day, a
tree man, the landlord and my neighbor saw what we saw. We then heard: ‘It’s
too risky’ ‘do not sleep there’, ‘you were right Fran, You were right.’ ‘The
whole tree must come out.’ The pathway over roots had killed the roots further
destabilizing the tree, even beyond the rotting and the lopsided weight of the
branches. How disgusting and repugnant that my warning about the tree being in
jeopardy was all true.
The air of death
is upon me. Everything around me is painted in death. Everyone who has seen
this tree says ‘no not that wonderful tree!’ We walk about numb and
dissociated. We will sleep in our R.V. while the forklift arrives tomorrow and begins to break up and
chip our tree to dust and fire fodder.
How many people
have loved this tree? Our neighbor is talking to the tree fairies who say they
are ready to leave the tree.
I think the tree
is tired and needs to lie down. They have found a large rotten opening in the trunk base. The cats are
as crazy and as sad as we are. I must think of some positive perspective, some
good from this, but I cannot today.
Aftermath
The tree has fallen
piece by piece, swung away from the house with ropes, down and hauled away. Eight days of one man scaling the tree,
wrapping the tree piece by piece in ropes. The jarred sawing of a branch or log
falling down and men dragging heavy chunks of oak away. Hundreds and hundreds
of pieces. The sweet pathway that had killed the roots hauled away and another
made, no more tree, no more problem.
Over the years the
tree had drifted gently over the house reaching out it’s riotous branches to
the light probably for several hundred years. The house was planted underneath
it. In the end the house won. This was so traumatic for me, a lesson in change
and lack of control. How we will probably hold on to life just like this, not
realizing that we are slipping down. If that still gives us 20 years to live,
that’s a long time, if our minds and our genetics will hold out. This is
bringing me to a conversation about death and how to do it. But not right now.
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| Fran Dayan |
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