The Fallen Dogwood Tree

As a general rule, I don't trust people. Or perhaps, rather, I completely trust that they will behave counter to my own interests in ways that they completely justify to themselves for reasons that are often incomprehensible. It takes a long time to earn my trust, and I find even then that I am somewhat protected.

Take the fallen dogwood tree. I found it quite charming, really. Back in the late '70s and early '80s, our family lived in Georgia, specifically in Peachtree City, a bit south of Atlanta. It was a fairly new, planned community, with golf cart paths connecting every neighborhood and plenty of green belt space left behind when the town was cut out of the pine forest. It wasn't all pine, of course. I discovered the delights of sweetgums, tulip poplars, and dogwoods, as well as the need to avoid greenbriars, and poison ivy which could climb to the tops of the trees while being just as nasty as ever while unidentifiable at ground level.

In the spring the dogwoods were enchanting. If you haven't been in the deep south then, you need to know two things about spring there. First, it happens in February, not May like in Minnesota. Second, the dogwoods flower copiously with large white blossoms that so fill the empty spaces between all the other branches that for a week or two it looks like a blizzard has struck and frozen in time. I cherished every dogwood in my yard and everywhere else visible.

When the house was put in, the front yard was bulldozed to level the dirt for grass, with whatever extra pushed off to the sides and into a remaining patch of trees. One of the casualties of this was a medium-sized dogwood. It wasn't completely uprooted, however; just knocked over. The branches facing upward continued to grow, turning this one otherwise unremarkable tree into a virtual hedge of dogwood, one with enough spaces between branches to offer seating, should one choose, on the trunk. It had had years to make the adaptation before we moved in. The first time it bloomed, I fell in love with it. Sure, it was quirky, but I could live with such charming quirkiness. Easily.

One day we had new neighbors next door. A few months after moving in, they rented a chain saw and began to "clean up" their yard. In this town, that had to be done carefully, as ordinances prohibited taking down trees of a certain size. I basically ignored them, figuring it was none of my business.

I was wrong.

Coming out of the house the next day, I thought something was wrong, something a bit off. It took a few beats, but then I realized: my dogwood was gone!

I couldn't believe it! My next door neighbors had taken it upon themselves to do me the "favor" of coming into my yard and without asking cutting down my dogwood tree! They had this ridiculous assumption that since it wasn't perfect, I didn't want it and would be grateful to them for having saved me the trouble of cutting it down myself!

They came into my yard! MY YARD! Without even asking! And they were completely unapologetic. Not only that, they were actually self-righteous about their good deed and puzzled by my lack of gratitude. By the end of our conversation, at least they were completely clear about my lack of gratitude. I hope they will remember it before they try their next "good deed" which involves trespassing, unasked.

I debated calling the police and pressing charges, but it wouldn't bring back my tree. Even planting a dozen little trees to create somewhat the same effect after several years would not have worked, since the tree roots were so tangled in that part of my yard that planting even flowers was tortuous work. And, it wouldn't have created the sitting spots that the fallen trunk provided.

All I had was outrage. And I still do, when it comes to mind. Needless to say, we never became friendly. They were just another thing to leave behind when we moved out of Georgia, and another event to tuck in the back of my mind, mostly unremembered, to keep me cautious about going out and greeting the rest of the world with open arms, awaiting whatever new wonders would ensue.

Hooey!