A few months ago we did something we didn't want to do. We're frugal and we abhor murder. But the tree outside our kitchen window had to go. Little cracks started appearing in the window. Then they turned into big cracks. Yep, the tree roots were pushing against the foundation.
If you're a homeowner, you know that the mere mention of needing to cut down a tree is enough to draw a waterfall of tears. Cutting down trees is expensive. I always try to convince our handyman that he can tackle this chore himself. He just shakes his head and laughs. He thinks I'm kidding.
Not long ago, my friend Sue and I noticed that a cypress tree around the corner was dead. A few weeks later, the homeowner happened to be sitting outside with a cold beer when Bailey and I strolled past one summer evening. I decided to casually mention the dead tree to her for 2 reasons: 1.) I'm an idiot who didn't realize the sycamore shedding bark like leaves meant the tree in my back yard was dead. The handyman had to tell me. Then he shook his head and laughed when I tried to convince him to run over to Home Depot and rent the equipment to knock it down. 2.) The dead cypress tree is smack next to her garage. It could total the roof or a vehicle.
So I casually mentioned it after some small talk. She immediately burst into tears. Not quite ... but just about. She's gotten estimates, and she can either feed an entire country or pull down the tree. She's still deciding. Although, hey, if you know a contractor looking for cypress wood who will pull down the tree in exchange for the scrap, let me know.
But back to our tree. It had to go. When you start becoming destructive and bust my windows, you get your walking papers. I didn't watch while it toppled. It's probably a good thing. I can't stand killing a tree and I would have cringed when the tree crew asked if they could take a leak in our back yard. I probably shouldn't have made such a large pitcher of iced tea for the tree crew.
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| It's a good thing I didn't go all Wizard of Oz and plant a field of poppies. |
With the tree down, I had to decide what to do with the empty space. I quickly decided on a flower bed with bird feeders and a bird bath. I worked, sweated, pulled up grass, tilled the soil, planted the flowers and then approached my husband with a bit of distressing news. I needed a water hose within close proximity to the flower bed in order to keep the flowers alive. And, looky, there's a faucet RIGHT NEXT TO the new flower bed.
Let me tell you something about Mr. G. He has a hatred of water hoses because he doesn't like getting concrete wet. Seriously. Joan Crawford hated wire hangers. My husband hates wet concrete. He once scolded me because the water from my pretty flowering pot was draining and getting the front stoop wet. He apparently thought I was going out there and wildly sloshing the water into the pot and all over the concrete with the nifty watering can he bought me so I could avoid using the hose. He didn't realize pots have little holes in the bottom to allow for drainage. He's got issues. Deep, deep, deep and mystifying issues.
Now I'm not exactly certain what is so bad about wet concrete. With mental illness, it's really best not to peel that onion. Trust me on this. I've tried sympathetic looks. I've tried soothing tones. I've tried a little soft music. Mr. G. just isn't willing to crack open his sheer and utter insanity on this issue.
So Mr. G. got a pained look on his face when I mentioned the need for a hose. Have I mentioned the new flower bed is adjacent to the driveway? We're not talking about a wet sidewalk; we're talking about getting a giant slab of concrete wet. Imagine if Mr. G. had to see that every time he roared into the driveway in his little Mazda. So he tried to change the subject. Then he questioned why I couldn't just tote my watering can back and forth. After filling it up in the sink, of course. No need to use any of the existing hoses! The concrete might get wet. I explained that I really didn't feel like making six or seven trips to the kitchen sink to water the flower bed every other day. So Mr. G. made a counteroffer. He would water the flower bed. And he did! All of ZERO times. When I questioned him about it, he looked at me and said: "You didn't really believe me, did you?"
