I know the type. My mom, rest her soul, had a couple of government lawyers, into all the trends but too antisocial and nerdly to make it as yuppies, living next door. Plugging in the fact of this being in Arlington, VA, might help make for a clearer picture, as well.
They had a dying elm at the back of their property, just over the line, that hung out over Mom's place, rendering most of her area for parking unusable for the peril of limbs falling upon Mom's car, her camper, or the head of anyone malingering in the area. Mom was failing at the time and didn't feel up to dealing with it directly so, after pondering the remnants of yet another huge limb from the elm shattered on the pavement only inches in front of her car, left a note on their door asking them to do something with the tree. Months and more fallen limbs passed with no action or response.
Mom mentioned it all to me one trip when I was down to visit, and I happened to see the entire family (lawyers and two children) out "pruning" a dogwood in their front yard. Butchering would be a better term. Carpe-ing the diem, I strolled over as nonchalantly as I could, coffee mug still in hand, to be neighborly.
They knew immediately what was up and as soon as the conversation came around to the elm, let me know that my brother had been playing his banjo two evenings earlier, perhaps too enthusiastically, perhaps too poorly, perhaps with the window open too wide, or some combination of the three that had disrupted their apostrophizing of the sunset from their screened-in porch.
I apologized for my brother's lack of consideration and promised earnestly to have a word with him.
Having possibly never heard and, I suspect, never having made an apology themselves, they were dumfounded. Again seizing the moment, I was able to steer their attention to the elm.
As we ambled in the general direction thereof, Madame, Esq., let me know that her parents were "arborists," which caused me no small pain as the eye teeth on the right side of my mouth pierced my tongue, having just witnessed the application of her acquired and inherited skills (of which more) to the dogwood.
Sho' nuff. She aimed to save the elm. The tree was still mostly of the usual stately shape, perhaps 50 feet or better in height, the first fifteen or so being trunk.
By way of response to my pointing out that their tree was dying, falling apart and rendering the back third of Mom's property too perilous for parking a car, never mind trying to traverse it on foot, Mme. Esq., replied that the elm was so majestic a tree that it deserved to live. She reminded me of her arboricultural heritage and pointed out the sparse new leaves at the ends of the upper branches as harbingers of hope for survival of the whole. I countered by pointing out that there was no bark on the wood for ten feet or more below those leaves and suggested that they would be withered in two weeks time, as spring would turn to summer. "One can never put too much effort into saving an elm," was the gist of her response. That one almost dumfounded me. Collecting myself quickly, however, I allowed as how a timely effort to save that tree was tardy to the tune of twenty years or more, and inquired as to what efforts she might have made other than letting the thing stand and die. Rather than pierce yet another hole in my tongue, having done so just moments before, I was able to relocate the last one, reinsert the canines, and resist the urge inquire as to whether dancing in an unseemly state of (un)dress about the trunk of the elm whilst chanting rhymes in ancient Pagan tongues might have been part of the treatment regimen. The lawyer in her could attest to no effort of any sort, heathen, holistic or medicinal.
It was another couple of months before the good folks at Asplundh called Mom to ask her permission to cut the old thing down from her side. A reasonable request, gladly granted.
My lesson out of all this was to gain a whole new understanding of the term "tree-hugger."
Asplundh called again just last year, seeking permission to bring their stump grinder in through Mom's driveway to remove any remaining evidence of the results of Mme's handiwork on the dogwood. Sad. It was shaping up as a nice tree until Mme. Esq. went at it.
The whole kerfuffle about the elm leads me to wonder how long the animals in her care might linger in agony before she does the right thing.
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