It’s amazingly difficult to get permission to cut down a tree on your own property in the city where I live. For us to receive a permit to cut down the tree that stood about 1.5m (4.5 feet) from our cottage out back, it took my husband four months of wrangling with the city. We were told by the city that we were unlikely to receive permission to cut it down, but in the end we were presented with the golden ticket.
I admit to feeling a huge weight of guilt when the truck pulled up and started mulching our tree. I don’t like being the harbinger of death, and this tree had just been hanging around, doing his thing, until I came along and pulled the trigger.
In the end, it was my fear of the huge branches that fall with every winter storm, combined with my hatred of the never-ending trails of spruce needles tracked into the house that made me overcome my love of the tree.
Our tree was so large that it took a crew of two men two entire days to cut it down. The tree chunks that they left behind are so big, that we have had trouble finding someone who wants to take it away for free firewood. (Want some firewood? Give me a call!)
The kids thought the whole process was infinitely fascinating. My son spent his time running from one window to the other just so he could be sure to take in all the action, and kept telling me the process was “So cool!”. My daughter, on the other hand is a kinder soul, and kept telling me “Tree! Broken.”.
Our broken tree.
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