I Used to Own a Tree

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Once upon a time, I had a tree. I can’t say that I luuuuuved the tree, but it was nice and green and really looked cool in front of my house. Now I own a feng shui collection of sticks planted in my front yard. I look like I’m protesting something, only I forgot to tell people what. THIS, my dear friends, is what we in the South refer to as “crepe murder,” a process in which some hapless man doing yard work comes along and gets frustrated with removing every delicate limb of last season’s growth off a crepe myrtle tree, and just hacks it.

You’re probably already thinking, “Gosh, Lorca, it’s like all you ever do is complain about something your husband did around the house.” HA! Shut up! My husband didn’t do this! So there!

Sorry, that was harsh. I got another look at my tree picture and took it out on you.

No, my husband didn’t do this. Last weekend, a man literally pulled up in our driveway, revved up a chainsaw, and cut my tree off and took the limbs away in the back of the truck. No, we did not call the police and report an arborcide. We just waved. We know him, he’s elderly, he’s crazy, and it kind of keeps me awake at night that he’s still allowed to drive a car. But he was holding a chain saw and there was no way in hell I was gonna say something to him about my tree. It’s just a tree. This picture would have looked very different if he had decide to lop my legs off.