death of a tree

This morning at 8am our street was visited by Jim’s Tree Service; they were there to remove the tree in front of the house across the street. Our neighbor M came over for the first time yesterday to let us know (primarily so P could move his car). It was good to know in advance. It’s good to have some warning. It’s for safety reasons, as the tree dips precariously over the street, and there’s a concern it would fall on children (or adults… that would be bad, too, no?). Having had a retaining wall collapse and demolish our car when we lived in the Bronx, I understand such risk. I understand why this must be done. But still.

Is baby-j too young to witness such a death? I suppose the point is moot, since I let him. At first, he started pounding on the window. He screeched and yelped at the machines. Then, after a few minutes, he returned to his morning ritual of searching for (and eventually putting in his mouth) small pieces of garbage on the floor that are too small for adults to see.

I’d never watched a tree being removed before, so I had no idea what a time-consuming process it is. They chainsaw the branches off first--in the case of the longer, thicker ones, cutting them in 2-foot sections, then dropping them three stories to the street below. Once dropped, they are immediately thrown to the woodchipper. Soon the branches are removed, leaving a bald trunk that gives a first glimpse of what this street will be like without this tree. Then, the trunk is sawed off from the top, piece-by-piece, each one lassoed by rope and then gently hoisted off the top to glide down to the ground.

Oh, tree, I hardly knew ye. But there is something haunting about this absence. For a hundred years (or more?), that existing space was all tree, and now it is just space. There are things we can see that we couldn’t before. In that sense, it’s much like the end of autumn, when everything is laid bare.