What is that noise? It’s not the rain, though insistent rainfall has accompanied me throughout the day. It’s an Oregon Coast December, so nothing but cozy-familiar there.
I have been making chili, a go-to for this vegetarian, and perfect for these winter afternoons, but I’m at the simmer stage when this sound pierces my consciousness. And it does not desist. It emanates from behind our back fence, and I recognize it even if I can’t yet name it. A trip to the backyard slider door confirms it as a column of smoke rises and melds with the gray weather. It’s a chainsaw! And then I see it. No—it’s what I don’t see that strikes me first: dual pine trees whose tops had spread their needly boughs beyond our yard, blocking the proximity of our neighbors.
What I do see—all too clearly now—is those neighbors’ roofs and back porch lights. We live in a closely-packed retirement community, but those pines afforded us evergreen deception. I grabbed my coat and raced out the back fence. The damage had been done. Where the trees once stood twin fresh-cut stumps bared faces to the rain.
I pursued the trail of the tree service to the street behind us and asked them “Why?” The man gently told me that one of the trees needed to come down, was sick. “And the other one?” I countered. “She was worried it would fall over in the wind when she wasn’t here and damage her neighbor’s property.”
There was nothing I could do. The mighty trees had been fallen, leaving sawdust, raw wood, and a hole where green once stood.
I rued their passing as loud lights on house backs blared, disrupting my early morning backyard reveries. I told my son how sad I was, how true the saying, “You don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone.”
Yesterday he brought me a tree, a Japanese maple, and planted it in the corner. Soon, he assures me, it will rise above our fence line and spread its leafy arms. “Will I live long enough to see that?” I ask, only half in jest. “Yes, mom,” he forbears. “Next spring…you’ll see.”
Thank you, Sam, my landscape-genius son. Patience he is cultivating in me. I will wait.
Jump off; Find Wings 
I enjoyed reading your story of patience. I already am anticipating your 2023 tree story so we can compare the size.
Me, too! Thanks for reading.
It’s so sad when a thing we appreciate is taken away. Yet the love and care of your son to see your need and meet it is precious. I love Japanese Maple trees, I’m sure you will too.
Thanks for reading. Patience is key.
I felt your pain as I read your slice. And I felt your hope. And hopefully, you will see things now that you never noticed before! Things blocked by the trees. Kind of like the sunshine streaming in after a forest fire. Your son sounds very wise!
Thanks for reading. He is wise; how did I get him? Must be from his father!
It is so hard to see the landscape change in this way. Yes, it makes the heart ache. We lost 3 white birch trees in our yard due to disease. It was so hard seeing them come down. New tree brings new hope.
It is a gift to the future observers, too. Trees are so amazing, and that they survive all we throw at them—until they don’t—makes me more appreciative.