Why am I so terrified of this? I could be no more then nine feet up, sitting in the cradle of my tree, but it’s raining and the mossy bark is slippery; one wrong move and down I go. Bruno is passing me up the bow saw so I can trim off the smaller of the two problem branches and lower the risk of having part of my tree fall into the neighbors property. He suggests I turn around onto my belly and straddle the lower, thicker section so I can get a higher cut, but I am frozen into position. I dare not move an inch, lest I slip and fall. The least amount of injury would be a broken ankle. I am twisting my body into an unnatural pose, trying to tackle it from my current, safer position. Soaking wet from rain. It’s not working, so Bruno signals me back down the ladder. Mission not accomplished. Fear got the better of me, and now, my neighbor with his recently replaced hip must complete the job..

It’s 6 pm on Saturday and I am settling in for the evening; it’s been a long and somewhat difficult day and the Green tea steaming beside me offers it’s calming aroma. I want nothing more right now then to open my book up to page 36 and continue where I left off yesterday, before all hell broke loose on my front lawn. I promised myself that I would take my bike out on the road today, but, the rain, relentless in it’s constant late spring assault, keeps coming and the temperature has now dropped below 13 degrees. It has been a dismal June so far; payback for a gorgeous April most likely, but still, it has been disheartening to say the least. Being this close to summer, the weather and the oppressive protocols to contain the virus has kept us locked into our restrictive worlds, and the walls are closing in on us rapidly.

I look up from my book and begin to see evidence that the rain is subsiding, finally! I begin to wonder if I could brave my ride still, but I justify, as I do so well, that it is late, the rain will return and it’s just too damned cold out there!. I attempt to rationalize with the idea of a shorter excursion; perhaps a quick ten down and around the Lake shore, and I’ll be back again before the clouds open up and pour their contents down onto our grey little hamlet. The hot tea. The book and the comfy couch are doing their very best to derail my courage.

Debating myself is a futile practice on most days. I am always rooting for the safest common denominator, which means the opposing fan base, the one pulling for me to do the right thing, is at an enormous disadvantage. Accountability now has to kick in and, thwarted by my very own proclamation only a few blogs back, the safe road is no longer an option. Post #3, I believe?: “Whenever I was confronted with a choice, I thought I was honoring my family by taking the careful road. But what I realized was this: the best thing I could do for my children is not necessarily keep them out of harms way, but to show them that it’s okay to step out into the unknown, to exercise my freedom to fail and attempt something great.”

Taking a damp Saturday evening bike ride is, by no means, a great accomplishment but it is a step. It’s an active endorsement of a brave constitution, to do things that are productive, contrary to how I feel. To yank myself off the couch into a cold and uncomfortable road, even if only for a short distance adds power to otherwise empty words and builds confidence for other, more testing endeavors. I pull away from lethargy’s last desperate attempt. I locate my bike shorts, my runners and my helmet, I top up the air in my tires and I’m out the door. Quickly before I change my mind!

It actually feels not bad, as I coast slowly down the back alley almost effortlessly. But as I turn onto King street and pick up speed, the cool wind gives me a shiver and I am reminded that I am not dressed well for a ride in the rain. My old bike shorts, worn thin from years of use, do not repel the air and water, and the wind penetrates my shirt easily. I quickly become chilled, but, after a few blocks the blood begins to circulate through my body and my extremities come back to life, as the initial creaks and aches of my stiff joints begin to subside. I am warming up now and once I have crested Haven hill, somewhat out of breath, I have recaptured my zone. I can now settle into a stride and lose myself in the moment as I gobble up the pungent aromas of fragrant perennials and late spring overgrowth. I am intoxicated by this cocktail which, mixed with my pulsating endorphins, entrance me in a mild, but very satisfying “riders” high. I begin to think back on my day and the ensuing events that followed a terribly, terribly windy Friday night….

In my backyard, cleaning up the debris of my youngest boy’s reckless imagination, three days of it, I have just covered the pool and noticed the wind was picking up. Rising to forty and fifty kilometres an hour for short bursts and then subsiding, I am holding my breath, knowing exactly what is in store. Huge tree limbs from my maple have snapped at lower wind forces, and there are a few more large ones waiting in queue. The sky has darkened now and the cat, fragile as she is, begins to claw at my back slider wanting to escape into the comfort and security of the house. Can you blame her?

It was then that I heard a loud crack; the notable sound of wood splitting and then I could hear a commotion out front. The inevitable had transpired, I knew it! I ran to the front to assess the damage, hoping, once again, that lady luck had come to my rescue and whatever had fallen, did so by missing anything of value.

I couldn’t believe the scene once I’d arrived. It seemed an entire tree was strewn across my lawn, and then I noticed that my car was missing. It was buried beneath a monolith of roughage and as I followed the branches to it’s source, I could see that it was the largest of the limbs that had been literally torn from it’s trunk. My neighbor was standing in the middle of what was once my yard, shaking his head accusingly, uttering confirmation of his earlier suspicions: That he could foresee the inevitable while he and his wife were having dinner on their front porch earlier. Then my other neighbor, the one to my right, came running outside and as she saw the mess that was leaning on my car, she offered, hand over mouth, her distraught condolences: “Oh no!……” she cried.

Thankfully, with the exception of a broken tail light and a few scratches, my car seemed to have weathered the storm relatively unscathed, but I knew this was the final nail in the coffin for my most cherished tree. It was time. She had to go. Too many close calls and the next set of limbs were hovering dangerously over my neighbors roof, so with that in mind, my Croatian neighbor ran to his house and came out with his telescopic chain saw. We worked through the storm, cutting back the branches that were covering my car and then we tackled those that were strewn across the street, pulling whatever we could back onto my lawn. By the time we had finished, my lawn looked like a jungle and I had to literally cut through the brush in order to make it to my front door. The next day, true to his word, Bruno showed up at my house with his tools and kindly helped me rid of as many of the hazardous branches as we could. He worked fearlessly at the top of my extension ladder, chopping off big branches and then tossing them down to me. It was a great display of friendship and support as he took time out of his day to come over and help a neighbor. Bruno is from a time and place that is foreign to many of us. As much of a pain the ass that he can be, always sawing and hammering away at his own home, there are many things I can learn from this man. I feel lucky to be his neighbor.

I snap out of my riding trance, just in time to feel the first drops of rain after our short reprieve. I pedal up Government street, take a left onto Ekhardt, a right onto Ontario street and then I’m home. The tree looks ridiculous after we’d hacked away at it today. From across the street it looks like a big cleaver has sliced it in half, top to bottom. It was a half tree now, and it lacked the majestic appeal which it proudly boasted for so many years. On Monday I called my Arborist to make an appointment for it’s removal and on Tuesday the tree was gone, leaving just a section of the stump where once stood a mighty old maple with a half century of stories, which will probably never be told. It was the end of an era; another burden removed from my life and a decisive act of embracing newness, and leaving the past where it belongs. In the past.

The yard looks excruciatingly bare now. The sun beats down on my lawn from sunup to sundown and it won’t be long before whatever was green will be scorched beyond recognition. But it’s nothing that a little creative xeriscaping can’t take care of. Each time I look out my window, I can see something that has been invisible up until now. I know what it means when someone states the classic idiom: “you can’t see the forest for the trees”. Well I can’t see the forest yet, but I can sure see a lot of sky!

I have calculated that over 15 years, I have raked up over 600 bags of leaves from the maple tree. It took that many leaves, two major sewer back ups, three wind storms and an old Croatian to finally help me slay the big beast in front of my house. I have come to the conclusion that I need to reformulate the way I make my decisions. Most of you would have cut that thing down along time ago, but I was convinced that it was in my best interest to keep it. After all, the tree shade was worth it!

It’s funny how the mind works. I wonder what else is in my way, and how long, this time, will it take for me to fell it?

Simon Kelly