The arborist who advised us on its removal came highly recommended and wasn’t the least bit shy with his opinions. “Whoever planted this thing in a corner, on a slope, beneath the shade of neighboring redwoods, had to be stark raving…”
I suspect the previous owners would have embraced the slur against their character as easily as they embraced the tree, no matter the consequence.
Let’s just chalk it up as the best guess of a kindred spirit. Which is simply my way of spinning the headline: BUSTED BY THE ARBORIST.
If only I’d camouflaged the evidence.
We were nearly done with the estimate before the arborist noticed the itty-bitty slip of a pomegranate that had self-sown and taken hold in a sliver of dirt between two cement walkways. I thought for a brief delusional moment that he might just pay the plucky little thing a compliment.
“That’ll have to go,” he said. “Before it becomes a problem.”
He didn’t even have the courtesy to address “it” by its proper name. If pomegranate’s had ears, I would have covered them. I pointed to the giant pine limb inches above the arborist’s head, hoping that he’d redirect his focus to the more immediate threat. But he just stood there with his hands on his hips, shaking his head. I gathered that I wasn’t the first clueless gardener of his career.
“The sooner you remove it the better.” He mimed a lopping motion with his hands.
I stepped between him and the slip, just in case he decided to pull the pruners hanging out of his back pocket..
“Consider it done,” I said, fingers crossed behind my back. He didn’t need to know that he was actually standing on the “it” I was referring to…
He probably suspected as much. He’s met plenty of my kind before. Collectively we’re the reason he’s so successful. I bet he has lots of stories to tell about balmy gardeners ignoring perfectly sound advice.
As for consequences, we throw ’em in the wood chipper and eat ’em for breakfast. Sometimes we toss pomegranate pips on top for good measure. They’re chock full of fiber and anti-consequences, you know.
When the time comes, maybe it won’t take fifty-odd phone calls to locate a contractor willing to jack-hammer a perfectly good walkway.
Maybe it will.
Meanwhile, even though it’s 100% pure madness, I’m going to peel one or two of those consequences…
And eat them too…
[The minute they’re ripe that is…]
♥ ♥ ♥