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For multiplied years I have driven past several acres of
pasture land on my way to this or that business or restaurant in my hometown;
about eight miles from my current residence.
And for years, I have noticed a large sign in that grassy
field which claimed a nearby church would soon be relocating to that particular
intersection. (Funny, how many times I have seen similar signs which made the
same claim, but which, ultimately, faded out and were removed, or simply fell
into disrepair).
And for years, as I made my way past that intersection, I
admired a beautiful little oak tree growing about thirty feet from the barbed
wire fence which bordered the two roads.
In recent years, I noticed an unusual amount of Spanish Moss
hanging from this oak tree, and seemingly more every time I drove by the
pasture. It is rare to see a Florida oak tree without moss hanging from its
branches, but it is equally rare to see one absolutely overwhelmed with this
parasitic growth.
As a result of the ‘assault’ of the Spanish Moss on the pretty
little oak tree, I finally decided to do something about it.
As I drove by the spot one day, I jotted down the phone number
listed on the sign, and, subsequently, I called the church office, and asked to
speak to the pastor.
“Hi, I’m Bill McDonald. This may sound a little strange, but I
noticed that lone oak tree in the pasture where you hope to relocate your
church is covered up with moss. It’s just such a beautiful tree. I’d like to do
something about it. Would you mind if I attempt to get the moss out of it?”
To which “Pastor Franklin” responded,
“Hmmm, I suppose that would be alright.”
And having had a moment to digest my request, he added,
“But I don’t want you to climb up into the tree. You know,
there would be a liability issue for the church if you fell.”
I acquiesced, and assured the pastor that I would keep my feet
on solid ground.
Pt. 2
A couple days later, I bought one of those extendable poles
with a claw on the end, and which was specifically designed to pull moss out of
trees. The following Saturday I loaded myself, the pole and very little else
into my car, and set a course for the little moss-covered oak tree in the
pasture.
Having arrived I parked my car next to the fence, got out,
retrieved my claw pole, (for lack of a better moniker), tossed it in the
direction of the tree, gingerly lifted the barbed wire, and navigated my way
between the offending barbs.
With this, I extended the pole, tightened the locking
mechanism, and set to work pulling moss out of the little oak tree. I found
myself frustrated with how much moss hung in the branches, and how little of it
I was able to pull down with each attempt. Even more frustrating my realization
that as long as the pole was, I could only reach halfway up the twenty foot
tall tree.
The pile of moss increased, and occasionally I stopped to put
the parasitic stuff in plastic bags. As the sun rose higher in the sky, I felt
increasingly thirsty. And since I hadn’t brought a thermos, I made my way back
towards the fence, reversed my course through the barbed wire fence, walked
across the street, and entered a corner convenience store where I bought a
fountain drink.
I hadn’t accounted for the lack of hydration which a soft
drink affords, and as I set back to work fatigue and thirst overwhelmed me.
Ignoring these troublesome symptoms, I continued to drag down moss from the
little oak tree.
By the time I finished what I was capable of finishing, I had
managed to decrease the overall bulk of Spanish Moss by perhaps a third,
perhaps a bit more. As I stacked the twelve or fourteen huge plastic bags by
the road, I found myself wishing I had brought a ladder; in spite of the
pastor’s admonition, and my promise not to do so.
Pt. 3
Driving home, I felt like I was going to pass out, and when I
arrived home all I could do was plop down on the sofa. I felt like I was about
3 minutes from death, when my wife began to pour water down my gullet. I think
it would be fair to characterize my condition that day as suffering from a sun
stroke. I vowed I would never ever take on a task like this one again without
bringing an ample supply of cold water with me.
As the days and weeks and months tick toked along, as they
always do, and as I continued to drive past that beautiful little oak tree, it
began displaying increasing signs of distress. Not only was the moss
regenerating itself in the places I managed to strip it from the limbs, but the
leaves of the tree, what leaves you could see, took on a sickly brown hue;
until all that was left was a skeleton of its former self.
And with the advance of years, this sad shadow of that
beautiful little oak tree continued to stand alone with wisps of Spanish Moss
hanging from its skinny branches. And I can barely look at it as I pass by.
It may seem a bit strange, but more than once, as I drove past
the tree, I have glanced at it, and said,
“I did what I could. It was simply not enough.”
(and)
“I (literally) almost gave my life for your life.”
Perhaps I’m too sensitive about the welfare of trees and
animals in my sphere of influence. Perhaps I’m not always sensitive enough
about the welfare of my fellow human beings.
And yet, I have often thought that flora and fauna have very
little wherewithal to choose right from wrong, or to protect themselves from
anything, whereas people do, and as a result of their bad choices, they
sometimes find themselves in a world of hurt.
When it is all said and done, I’m glad I did what I could to
save that lovely little oak tree in the pasture.
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