I whined a few weeks ago about the loss of our beautiful Water Oak in the side yard. Each morning, I have missed that golden, dappled light as I do my morning coffee and Bible reading. I started thinking about what we could do to replace that old soul that was outside our window. Alas, there is no replacing, as the thing was at least 85 years old and bigger than the house, but something had to be done.
One afternoon, as I was watching baby Ethan at my daughter’s house, we took a stroller walk around the neighborhood. I saw several mature trees that made me pause. The light was filtering through them like the magic in a wonderful movie. There was curling bark and leaves dripping like they had nothing to do but show off. After a little research, I found out that they were River Birch trees. I remembered an old friend who had two massive ones flanking the walkway to her fancy Buckhead house. I always loved them, with their unique bark and the way they affected the sunlight with their willow-like leaves. I also recalled that her evil gardener talked her into sawing them down. I bet he got tired of moving leaves around.
I started searching for local shops who had River Birches in their inventory. I talked to Ken at length about it. We wandered in the yard, him with a measuring tape and strong opinions about how many trees we could put over there. He said, “one.” I said, “two, at least.” It’s gonna take years before these things make a difference, so why not double your efforts? I found a store in Carrollton called Southern Homes and Ranch. It’s an Ace Hardware, with the helpful hardware man.They had two 7-footers.
One random Thursday morning, Ken said, “Can you head over and get those two trees? I’ll go ahead and agree to two, and if you hurry, I’ll get them planted before I have to go to work this afternoon.” I threw my purse over my shoulder and flew out the driveway. Ken is not known to be spontaneous so, I knew I had to seize the day. Excitedly, I drove out I-20 to the GA 113 exit, turned left, and headed to Carrollton. As I was buzzing south on 113, I whipped right past a sign: Redland Nursery. It said something about trees, both Christmas and otherwise. I needed trees! I yanked off to the side of the road, googled the nursery, and called. The owner picked up on the first ring and told me that yes, he had River Birch trees, and they weren’t just seven feet tall. It was kismet.
I ambled down a dirt road to his house, passing what seemed to be hundreds of acres of saplings. I followed him off the dirt road and four-wheeled it to a batch of giant trees. He said, “These are too big. It would cost you $1200 just to get someone to dig these out.” That wasn’t in my budget, so we meandered around to another field where the “little” birches were located. There was a line of lovely ones that were much taller than seven feet, but just right in my mind.
In my excitement, I told him that I wanted three of them as I wrote out a deposit check. I mean, you have to admit that the Trinity is foundational to God’s nature. Everything that looks great comes in threes. A triangle is a super-stable thing, and I simply couldn’t see anything but three in the yard. One would give off a puny vibe, two would feel too symmetrical, but three was just right. The man told me he’d have to get his guys out there to dig them up and bag them up in burlap in a few days so they could be transported.
He covertly asked, “Do you have a big trailer?” I figured Ken could throw them in the back of his truck and we’d be good. After much ado and details I cringe to mention, I find three monsters from Fangorn Forest laying across the trailer in our yard. Surely these mammoths were not the trees I chose. My lumberjack men informed me that they could not move these by themselves (no small concession from what I consider to be modern-day Vikings). Apparently, large, earth-moving equipment and power tools were going to have to be involved if we were to ever get these in the ground.
For nigh three weeks, those trees slept in their burlap while we watered them and waited for a trusty man with an excavator to come. I was alone last Sunday when everything finally came to fruition. His machinery crept by, inches from our old windows. He expertly dug massive holes in just the right spots we had marked. Before I knew it, there were three towers standing proudly, still tied up at the top. I figured Ken was now going to die, falling off a ladder to get those loose. But when he arrived home, he quickly nicked the ropes and pulled, freeing those beautiful branches. I drenched them with the hose and could almost feel them breathing a deep sigh of relief. Now they’re all tucked in and we’re praying for spring and God’s favor.
I kind of figured that Ken might decide not to send Mama on random errands anytime soon. It often turns into much more than he bargained for, but I have to say that that man must love me, after all.
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