One was on the far left. One was equally far right. One was on the fence, while one went into the house. Happily, they have nothing to do with politics. They were trees. Sadly, they both fell – toes up and roots waving – during the tornado winds of Helene last September.
The magnolia tree on the far right (northeast corner) of my property was the one that came down on the roof of my house. Actually, rather gently, very southern-lady-like, she only poked a few holes through the shingles – not enough to even allow the rain to come in. In fact, less damage was done in her graceful fall than during her subsequent removal – which ripped and tore and scraped down all manner of bushes and plants and fencing along the entire east side of my house and property. And still, left behind was a good long length of her trunk and massive roots, upended and heavy on the ground, her skirts lifted and splayed as if she were a naughty can-can dancer flashing her knickers at her onetime neighbor, the tiny guest cottage behind her, surrounding herself with root-strewn bricks like red confetti.
A similar scenario played out on the far left (northwest corner) of my property with a large lovely flowering tree that I had never been able to really identify. She, however, was tossed about in different directions and took out fences to both the west and north – plus one neighbor’s storage shed and another neighbor’s palm tree. She was very undecided and awkward about it all, rather like someone arriving late to the theater and stumbling down a row of established audience members trying to find her own resting place. Like the magnolia, her ultimate removal also resulted in a similar aftermath, with a tangle of upturned roots at the end of a heavy fallen trunk, torn from the ground, her skirts flying – all quite sassy yet terribly sad.
But what seemed like tragic left-behinds to me, apparently appeared as compelling new opportunities to the dogs – short dog Daphne in particular.
While I was searching for someone who had the wherewithal to come and remove the excruciatingly heavy and cumbersome trunks and unruly root systems, the dogs were busy evaluating and excavating. Beneath both tree remains of root drapes and soft dirt, they had found and expanded upon the most exquisite dens … the most delightful hideouts … a unique twist on the tradition of “tree houses.”
The passage of time over the winter months and the coming spring has also allowed for bright strands of ivy and soft moss and tiny flowers to creep across and around the massive trunks and decorate the doggy playhouses as if they were deep in a woods. This also gives the dogs great footing for climbing and cushy beds for standing on like giant wild wolves of self-image. Now, they can crouch in shadow secrecy at the sides of the trunks, or lie in coolness and be protected from rain and wind and all manner of scary things within the root-hole dens, as well as stand tall and majestic, peeking over fences from the top sides of the trunks themselves.
Of course, now the tree remains can not be removed. Of course, now they’ve even been incorporated into an odd sort of new landscape. They’ve actually become the basic elements around which I’ve been trimming and reshaping. The nice man doing the removal of all the rest of the dead and dying bushes and fences and vines and ground cover has been graciously a part of the whole scheme. He cautiously cuts around and respects the doggy playhouses as he works, while dogs Daphne and Liam watch like concerned project managers.
I suspect there could not have been a more pointed or poignant life lesson taking place in my own backyard these past few months. Perhaps I will try to look at other crushing blows and frightening changes with an eye for new possibilities. Perhaps, too, I’ll learn the importance of never missing an opportunity to play. Perhaps I will forever see downed trees as dog forts.