A Bit of Tree Empathy - Part 2

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In a previous blog titled, “A Bit of Tree Empathy” (Part 1) I related how I planned to de-moss a lone oak tree in a pasture today.

I did.

At least I did a tolerable job of it considering the tools I possessed, and the understandable expectation of the owner, a church, that I not bring any ladders to the task.

Since the 1,500 pound bovines were grazing a couple hundred yards across the pasture, and seemed to have no intention of trampling me underfoot, I felt altogether safe, and went to work. (Obviously, I was careful to avoid wearing red).

By the time I finished the deed I managed to defoliate the tree to the tune of twelve 30 gallon yard bags. To be fair, by the time the job was complete

… it wasn’t.

I can’t honestly say that the tree looked all that much different than when I first began. There was still plenty of that gray parasitic amoeba hanging in the tree, but I found myself hoping that I’d done enough to “give it (the tree) a fighting chance).”

(Don’t tell anyone, but I must be a “Tree Whisperer” since when I’d done all I planned to do, I placed my hand on the tree, and said,

“Well, it’s up to you now. Sorry, but … I ain’t doing this a second time.”

At the grand old age of 2/3 of a century, (I’m thirty, as long as I stay away from mirrors) I was surprised how much this job “kicked me in the a_ _ .”

(I don’t say that “A word,” but sometimes I spell it, … minus the second and third letter).

I mean, I worked for United Parcel Service for twenty years, and knew “the heat of the day,” but I retired a full two decades ago, and hadn’t been put to such a test, as this, since then.

I found myself slowing down. I mean like real S-L-O-W. And I later realized that while I had “downed” a quart thermos of water in the first hour of the five hours I spent in that pasture, all I imbibed in the remaining four hours was a few swigs of Pepsi. Well, my friend, to put it succinctly, that simply doesn’t work.

I found myself seeking the comfort of the tree trunk every eight or ten minutes. Unfortunately, the bull ants must have had the same idea. Several caught my hapless skin in their pincers. (I can truthfully say, however, I failed to detect the first redbug; a tiny insect which inhabits moss, like an uglier, more visible insect inhabits roach motels).

As it occurred to me later, yours truly (whom the doctor always accuses of being dehydrated) managed to excrete 99.9 per cent of the remaining H2O in my physiology, and found myself altogether “wiped out.”

I was barely able to drive the single mile to my house. And when I came in the door and did the “Honey, I’m home” thing, both my wife and I noticed that my voice was hoarse, and I immediately sought the comfort of my recliner.

With this, my wife offered a cool rag; which brought me back a full 5 percent from utter oblivion.  But it was something. And it was appreciated.

Even as I write these words, ten hours later, my voice remains raspy and fatigue permeates my body.

But I’m alive. And that’s definitely a plus.

Did I mention I spoke in church tonight? (Well, I did). And though the subject had nothing at all to do with a lone oak tree in a pasture, the first words I spoke when I stepped to the podium were,

“Is it possible to feel sorry for a tree?”

(And proceeded to affirm that it is, and to summarize my day).

Would I do it all over again?

As retired military, kinda like asking me if I would answer this country’s call to Iraq or Afghanistan. (Though at this stage, I consider both carbon copies of Vietnam).

Yes. Yes, I would.

But as I admonished  that little lone oak tree in the pasture,

…"Don’t ask me to do it again."

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 9