There always seems to be a dead branch or two dangling from one of the three very large oak trees in our yard, not large enough to crush us, but big enough to put a hurtin’ were one to fall on us. They become entangled in the other branches and hang there like the sword of Damocles.
One has hung stubbornly over the azalea bushes in a corner of the Byrds’ yard for months, well out of reach but annoyingly obvious–a dangling digit if you will. Last week we noticed one hanging from the tree on the other side of the front yard, over our driveway.
No, we don’t have dying trees imperiling the neighborhood. These aren’t limbs, but they’re larger than twigs. Twimbs, perhaps.
When Daughter Boo called and said that she and her boys would like to visit this week, DB decided to tackle the branches on his own. He assumed a Dagwood Bumstead identity to take on the task.
His first weapon of choice was a 24-ft., fully extended pruning saw. He climbed the three-step ladder and waved it at the branch. Within minutes he was left holding a 12-ft. pole in one hand, looking up at the other half in the tree.
Our neighbor on the driveway side had been backing out of her driveway to run errands, but when she saw the scene in ours, she jumped out of her car and headed into her house, calling out that she wasn’t coming out again until he got off that ladder.
When another neighbor farther up the street drove by and saw him working to free the saw by waving a 20-foot window-washing pole at it, she stopped to watch. When the sponge sailed off and the top half of that pole went flying too, she told him that she was on her way to the hospital to see her mother, so she’d alert the ambulance to start on out in this direction.
Did I mention that he was doing all of this on a grey, drizzly day?
With both of his poles out of commission, he got out the 30-foot electrical extension cord and tied a wrench to it. He was, believe it or not, able to reassemble the wrench after it flew off in several pieces. An old tennis shoe tied to the cord was the next weapon of choice.
I stayed inside except for running out in my pj’s to take these pictures. I have never been able to watch horror shows.
Finally, the doorbell rang. There stood my wet husband, ladder and broken sponge head in hand, the broken wrench, tennis shoe, extension cord, and assorted poles lying on the sidewalk all around him. He flexed his biceps and asked with a grin, “Who’s your man?”
He told me he’d heard wild applause from the other side of the street when the tennis shoe found his mark. A third neighbor waved wildly and called, “I’ve been watching you! This is my second trip around the block!”
DB told me to call Beau Byrd and tell him, too bad, he’d missed his chance to sue. DB had captured that branch, too.
Here’s what awaits the yard waste truck:
That’s my man.