A tree is trying to kill me. It’s in my backyard, waiting for me to come out.
This silver maple, a species not native to southern California, is more than 200 years old. The approximate life span is 130 years.
It was planted in the early 1800s when the land was used for cattle.
In 1871, George Le Mesnager purchased the land. From France, he aspired to make Bordeaux wine. That’s when the tree was murdered, or, as we like to say, cleared. He was making room for his vineyards. With the Prohibition movement gaining traction, Le Mesnager saw the writing on the wall and sold the land to William Spar in 1898.
He transformed the vineyards into an orange orchard. In the twenties, Sparr saw the future and its name was suburbia. With the creation of a trolley line to downtown Los Angeles and the advertising of tranquility in the country, Sparr Heights became a commuter neighborhood.
Meanwhile, this tree quietly resurrected itself. From its trunk, four stems fanned out and prospered.
Enter moi, 13 years ago. How did I know this mammoth lay in wait, seeking revenge. All I saw was a benign shade tree, albeit ugly because of a bad topping off job. Fast forward to now, the tree is bursting out of its backyard confinement, spreading into the neighbors’ yards, hanging over my house and garage.
And its limbs are dropping. Oh, not all at once. It’s judicious. Just when my guard drops, another one crashes down. These aren’t twigs; these are hundred pound limbs. The latest snapped an abandoned cable line and could have easily taken down my power line.
The arborist tells me this is natural. The tree is healthy. My gardener tells me this tree is a widow maker. He pleads with me to cut it down.
Yet I have an affinity for trees. I am a tree hugger. I camped next to a giant redwood to listen to its ohm. It was a mystical experience.
Back in my boho days, when my ear was pierced and I wore things around my neck, my sister gave me a sterling silver necklace. The simple chain held a pendant cut out of the tree of life. I loved that necklace and wore it much.
That tree of life speaks wisdom, sitting atop a hill, all symmetrical. They are the granddaddies and grandmommies of the world, reaching for the sky yet sinking deep underground (quietly crucified by the thousands every day).
And I love sitting in its shade. With a well crafted espresso in one hand and newly arrived New York Times in the other, I assess just the right spot. Place a cushioned chair just so, and ahhhhh, heaven on earth.
What to do; what to do.
I retreat to my tiny deck, safe from overhanging limbs and ponder. Cut it down, no more shade. Yet I don’t want to play Russian roulette with this tree. I don’t want to be tomorrow’s headline: Man killed in backyard by tree. Gardener says, “I told him not to go out there.”
The sun glares down at me. Another killer?
Uh oh.