All day long the chainsaws buzzed.
A now retired arborist (a defoliated arborist?), looked at our Liquid Amber. Long and overhanging branches barely moved. A still day.
“They could be dangerous in a high wind. That tree needs to have the crown lowered. I thought of a coronation not that long ago.Tree Shapes arrive. Three pleasant young fellows in comfortable light clothing – it was 11 degrees – happily munching the last of a breakfast bought at our Bakehouse. Unhealthy as it was satisfying.
A large green truck, plus a mysterious, large green trailer, with hand flapping from one of the crew, backs down our curved drive.
An experienced eye surveys the tree. A few words to the team.
A light, weighted cord thrown over a ‘significant’ branch. A sturdier climbing rope drawn up and over.
The ballet begins. Abseiling, advice from down below, moving from branch to branch, and heavy branches delicately lowered by rope.
Team work.
Our sweeper-upper, a stocky and strong fellow adept at job swapping, guided heavy limbs across our garage roof, shouted suggestions to his mate aloft, leapt down and did chain sawing stuff to make grandpa’s (me) firewood cutting easier. Once, he yelled, “Hold it!” to someone, somewhere. Maybe,just maybe, there’s an unseen guy somewhere still holding it.
And so to the The Third Man for him to play his part. With earmuffs close, and pouch of tools on side he starts the mysterious and heavy green trailer.
It is a muncherator. Starting up it sounds like an Air NZ jet engine. Even louder when branches, heavy, and thicker than a man’s arm is fed down a chute. Then a blast of wood chips from the metal tube on top feeds the green truck with mulch. Like a giant food processor. It is a tree processor. Once a branch, it is now sans leaves, sans twigs, sans everything.
They worked all day. A brief stop for lunch.
Five pm. Silence.
The autumn leaves have gone. No birds.
“That tree was a landmark!” – a neighbour passing by.
Lonely, gaunt against the evening sky, our Liquid Amber.
David in Pen and Pics 