Humor

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I used to live with a willow tree, but I escaped; only slightly damaged. I remember the days when I used to think they were such lovely trees. I always wanted a house with a willow tree in the yard. They were so stately, so elegant. Who knew they were really out for blood.

Willow trees are a scourge for so many, many reasons. Where or where do I begin? Let's start with the trimming. The house that I happened to live in had a you-know-what planted in the front yard. It was big, with branches that hung over the sidewalk leading up to the front door. Before long, we noticed that getting into the house was becoming something of safari, requiring machetes and bearers to make it through the leafy growth. Something must be done. The job fell to me as the only one willing to take on external gardening activities.

I had never encountered a willow tree up close and personal before so I wasn't sure what I was up against. Innocently, I went to the store and bought some hefty hedge clippers. I donned gardening gloves and went to work.

My first thought was to clear a path from the car to the front door. That being done, the rest of the tree looked a mess. It was silly looking with just one side trimmed back and the rest hanging in various lengths like a bad hair cut. The job had to be done so I took a deep breath and attacked. Now, trimming a willow tree with manual hedge clippers is kind of like, um, torture—self-inflicted torture. Various family members and neighbors would breeze by, congratulating me on a nice job, and take a stab at comforting me, that I was getting a good workout. You know, the kind of workout that prevents you from moving your arms, shoulders or upper body for days to come. The kind of workout that makes you glare at the stupid tree every time you walked past it. It did, however, look great once it was trimmed up with branches evenly cut. It was almost worth it. That satisfied feeling lasted all of two weeks. No kidding. Two weeks later, the machetes were out again. Sometimes I waited three weeks before attacking the monster but that just meant that we had to duck lower to get into the house for a while.

The upper body workout is only half the joy of tree trimming on a grand scale. Once the job is done, the yard is strewn with tree litter—skinny sticks, and long, leafy branches. Little bits of leaves cover the yard like snow. Now, because I didn't invest in an electric hedge trimmer, I also didn't invest in a leaf blower. My weapon was a good old-fashioned rake. I usually filled two large recycle garbage cans with leaves and branches, hauling the cans around the yard and scattering leaves as I filled them. It was thankless work made worse by the oppressive heat of the summer. It was only right that the tree should at least offer some shade while I sweated.

Weeping Willow. Do you know why they're called Weeping Willow? I used to think it was because of the way the leaves swept down in graceful… No, I’m sorry. I can't describe that tree in agreeable words. The branches hung down. But, nope, that's not why they’re called that. I found out the real meaning of the name one day when I went to my car only to discover that it was covered in sticky goo, like someone sprayed my car from end to end with glue. Glue makes things stick to it, like leaves for instance. It also makes a mess of your windshield. Sticky little leaves found their way into my car. They stuck to my hair and my clothes. Now, not only did the tree grow faster than, well, faster than it should, now the long, stringy branches were armed with goo that grabbed at you while you carried in groceries. Sticky little leaves followed you into the house and on the cat. It rained goo for weeks. We began to pray for rain that would wash away the goo and make the tree behave itself. Then it did rain and not only did it not help the goo situation, the entire yard was covered in more tree litter.

I no longer live in the house with the hated tree. I'm sure the tree thinks it won but I don't give it that satisfaction. I used to think it was a beautiful tree but not any more. It's a miserable, hairy growth that may one day find itself warming a fireplace. I take morbid comfort in that thought. I only hope to be the first one to light the fire.

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