My poor trees

Update: With enough calls to the right people, we have permission to keep the trees. Also, we discovered that, under duress, we can transplant 8 shrubs (about 2 years worth of work at our normal pace) in 36 hours. So now we have no excuse.

We noticed a couple of days ago that there were orange markers on our rose bushes. At first, I thought nothing of it, but then my partner suggested that it might have something to do with the road construction. “Surely not,” I said. “They’re all the way back on this side of the rose bush.” (The rose bush is about 10 feet thick.) But he called the information line about the construction and they said, “Well, we’re cutting everything on the road side of the orange markers.”

Which is all of this:

And all of this (but the very tallest tree) before the next power pole.

Now, the reasoning is (they told us) that they aren’t going to get back to cut for another 30 years. But when they take all these established trees, they pave the way for exactly the kind of succession plants (like aspen and birch) that they are trying to get rid of. Also, they make it look like this:

This is around the corner where they’ve already been.

Not to mention that (untidy lawn aside), the rose bush is so pretty that tourists stop to take pictures of it. Because it looks like this close up:

And to be really clear, it doesn’t interfere with lines of sight.

And it won’t grow down and across the moat, because there are established plantings there (cattails and lupines), also. Although once they disrupt the system, the weeds will probably take over instead.

Also, this tree, which gifts me with a beautiful red glow at sunset every day, will still be gone.

Along with this tree, when the sun is at just the right angle the island in the background glows. And we call one another to come and see.

We moved the rarest of the plants during the heat of the day… we have always intended to put a hedge down the side the driveway, but this wasn’t how we wanted to do it:

It’s hard to tell, but we transplanted 2 quinces, 2 forsythia, and a weigela.

We’re serious about our plants, and this was the one part of the property that we could look at and be content with. It just seems like so much wanton destruction… and so ill-conceived. I saw a number of fully grown trees today that had had no branches below the 20 foot mark that have been reduced to this:

This tree was not a sight-line problem, but the succession species (that is, weed trees) that will take its place will be.

Also, ugly.

This thing of beauty that inspired me every time I looked out the window is going to be replaced with a clearcut that won’t be re-established until I am nearly 60 years old. Which will (apparently) be just about time for them to come and destroy it again.

Heartbroken. I am heartbroken.

Red Shoes (Flash Fiction)

Experiments in daily writing. Fiction. I hear some people write about things that never even happened… who knew?

Clicking down the street in her not-quite-too-high red pumps, she found herself thinking through the day ahead. Three meetings this morning, a demo just after lunch, and two reports due by tomorrow. Looked like another caffeine-fueled night at the office. She eyed her first double-tall-skinny latte of the day. Something tugged at her… didn’t this used to be special?

She remembered sitting at the cafe with her classmates, nursing a $5 cup for an hour to drag out the evening without breaking the bank. Now, between the coffee to speed her up and the daily yoga class to slow her down, she regularly dropped $20 before breakfast.

Of course, she thought with a small smile, she also got to wear $500 shoes. She paused for half a second to admire her footwear in a passing window and nearly caused a pileup on the sidewalk. “Oh, for God’s sake,” she heard a man mutter as he stepped around her.

Right. No time to pause. She stepped back into the flow… work to be done.

At the End of the Retreat

Once more, with feeling. And metaphor. And Dharma.

“And what is it that you do, exactly?”

Once more, the long-winded explanation of the intersection of technology, education, and culture that I find at the end of a twisty path. Once more the small (mildly apologetic) justifications for how/why I know the things I “know” (insofar as anybody knows anything).

“And is there a market for that?”

“Well, there’s certainly an audience for it… whether anybody is willing to pay for a critique of our relationship with technology and a different conceptualization of culture is another question entirely…”

“But, sure, you might wind up starting out for free, but eventually with printing costs… (something something something)” You have to figure out a way to get paid. (I think was the gist of it.)

“Yes.. and… (long pause)…
It doesn’t matter whether there’s a market for it. It’s my work to do.”

(And, once again, I come back to my statement about the ability of the market to determine worth: “There was no market for Sunflowers, either, but that doesn’t mean that Van Gogh shouldn’t have painted it.”)

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