March/April 2012

The morning the oak tree was cut down was dismal and wet The morning the oak tree was cut down was dismal and wet, clouds drooping under the defeated sky. My breath fogged up the school bus window as I strained my eyes for one last look at the tree’s branches; one last look at the way they stretched towards the weak sunlight. I did not feel particularly sad, as I had expected, but then, what was going to happen had not yet fully registered. It was as though I was going to snap my head up in the middle of next day’s math class and say “What!” about twenty-six hours too late. The town council, as they so bravely called themselves, had come to us months before, demanding that we cut down the “safety hazard” in our front yard. My father, never one to respect authority—especially if they were asking him to destroy something he loved, had laughed in their faces and slammed the door. Thinking that they would give up, we had promptly forgotten about the encounter until presented with their lawyer, who listed the laws we were violating until our eyebrows touched our hair. Knowing they had won, the group of committee members had smugly walked down our walkway, smart skirts and pressed pants rippling in the breeze. I had felt a strong urge to yell something at them, but my father’s footsteps drew my attention. He was walking away, toward the kitchen! To my utter disbelief he had picked up the phone and dialed the local tree service company, arranging an appointment for the “soonest time possible.” My father, who loved that old oak as much as I did, had given up. His great grandmother, when her father had built the house, had planted it. His father had taught him to climb in its dependable arms, and he had taught his daughter, me. But he had given up. And then, so had I. And here I was, being pulled away by a cheerful, yellow bus amid drizzling rain and gray skies, wondering if I would hear the crack! of splitting wood all the way in my science room. Then the realization I had been expecting came, and I knew that I wasn’t going to sit around while my favorite part of the neighborhood was destroyed by paranoid monkeys in dress clothes. I was going to try my best, come what may. “Excuse me?” I asked the bus driver, trying not to look at the rolls of fat that cascaded from her stomach, resting on her legs. “Yeah?” “I was—um—wondering if you would let me out. I forgot something at home. I can have my mother drive me to school after I get it, she’s off work today.” This was a lie, but how was she to know? “Sure, hon, get on out. Don’t be late for school!” With a faint hiss like angry snakes hidden inside the dashboard, the doors opened, and I ran down the rain-darkened steps and onto the road. Even though my house was only a few blocks away, I knew I had to sprint to make it there in time. They were coming to cut the oak down at eight-thirty, in less than five minutes. Panting, I reached the back gate of my yard and yanked it open. Hidden by leaves, I put my foot in the familiar knothole and hoisted myself up into the tree’s branches. They stood, immobile and confident under my feet, while their delicate leaves filtered sunlight like stained glass. I climbed from branch to branch, farther than I had ever dared to climb before, so far up that when I peeked down, the whole town seemed unfolded below me like a giant Monopoly board. Suddenly I felt a little scared, as if I might be doing the wrong thing. But I couldn’t turn back now, could I? The rain had started to come down harder by the time the green truck pulled up into our driveway. Scrawled across the side in mud-brown print was Fitch & Thompson’s Tree Service: Providing Help for Trees for Minimum Fees since 2007. I didn’t really see what there was to brag about, but then I wasn’t in the tree service industry. Three men wearing atrocious orange shirts bearing Fitch & Thompson across the back walked the length of the yard and up onto our front step. Before they could knock on the door it opened, and my father and three committee members walked out. When had they gotten here? One of the men walked over to the base of the oak and started to take notes, while the other two pulled the truck out of the driveway and parked it parallel to the edge of the yard, where their soon-to-be victim gallantly stood. They began to prepare their chainsaws, and I knew it was time to announce my presence. However, I didn’t get the chance. “What are you doing up there?” The man who had been taking notes had evidently looked up, and everyone else followed suit. “I’m passively resisting,” I stated bluntly. “You can’t cut her down now. That would be murder.” I said the last bit triumphantly, directing my words at the people who had condemned my friend to die. They sputtered a bit, and the tree man’s jaw fell open, but my attention was now focused on my father. He had a sad, slightly disappointed look on his face, as if he had expected better of me. “Caroline. Come down, now. This is going to do nothing but disrupt things. You can’t stay here forever, and then they’ll just come back tomorrow.” I hadn’t thought about that in my race to figure out what to do, and suddenly the plan seemed much less ingenious. But I would stand my ground. “No. I’m staying up here.” The rain was pouring by now, sticking my hair to my neck and soaking through my clothes. My teeth chattered of their