Today my husband attempted to trim the trees. This doesn’t sound like that big of deal, but our backyard has degenerated into a jungle, complete with hanging vines and twinkle lights. I know some gardens go for the rustic, naturey look, but we have gone too far with this concept. As I look out our wall of windows, I see shades of green juxtaposed with the browns of dead branches, crumbling fence, and newly-repaired wooden deck. The lonely fire pit relaxes in the corner, dormant since the warm winter robbed it of its stage. Dead branches, the only remains of a row of shrubs, outline the wooden seating. I try to ignore the red solo cups that escaped the clean-up process.
Back to the trimming. Thanks to a chain replacement on a retired saw, hubby was able to begin with the smaller branches overhanging the deck and end with miniature trunk-like chunks. Safely removing these sections of tree extensions required analysis of the highest order. Success would mean sky revealed and trees released of their extra pounds. Failure could mean anything from partially cut branches, evidence of hacking not quite completed. Or it could mean a fall, or worse. Whether successful or not, his muscles will no doubt punish him for today’s exertion. Bye-bye dead wood.