That tree has to go!

    Saturday, June 9, 2007

   The wind was fierce last night, and each groan and creak of that old tree startled me into wakefulness.  I was sure that I would not sleep at all, and I was amazed to find the tree, and the nearby barn, intact this morning.  Age, with help from the critters, has taken its toll.  That tree is green with leaves, but its center is rotten.

     As much as I hate to do it, the tree has to come down now.

     Sunday, June 10, 2007

     I was able to take most of the low branches down on my own, but the trunk is too thick for the chain saw.  At least I won't have to worry about having enough firewood come winter.  I hope that I don't find any eggs in that big hole.  I would hate to think of evicting expectant woodpeckers.

       Monday, June 11, 2007

     Good news:  no woodpeckers.  Bad news:  big bad stump.  Duane, the local jack-of-all-trades, will take the trunk off on Tuesday, then come back to grind the stump on Wednesday.

        Wednesday, June 13, 2007

      Duane came into the kitchen with a surprise in his big calloused hand.   A box, crusted with age, about a foot long, one corner freshly mangled and chewed.  In it, something long and silver, wrapped in yellowing paper.  The stump grinder caught the edge and threw it, he told me. 

      This old farm is full of stories, and I was about to find another one.  At least there would be no guano.  My last "story" was finding out that the rumor about bats in the attic was in fact true.  I keep hoping to see one of the fabled ghosts, but so far, no luck.

      The farm was not my cup of tea.  I am a city girl all the way.  But restoring the property so that my niece and her husband could live here and have horses had become a driving force in my life after Keith had lost both legs in Iraq.   I am willing to spend the time to make the house and barn habitable, but I miss the city, and hopefully I can meet my goal of 6 months maximum.  I lucked out with Duane.   He was born and raised nearby, and though he never learned to read and write, he can work magic with his 2 hands and an army of tools.

       The paper was so yellowed and fragile that I took my time coaxing it open.  The silver "thing" has slid out to the table.  The words were written in a schoolboy hand, in old Spencerian script.  I fished my magnifying glass out of the old desk in the study.  The faded ink did not tell me much.