Coming Soon

The lumberjacks have gathered outside my window at Chaos Manor. No voices are heard, only the sound of a rasp sharpening the teeth on a saw, the rumble of equipment being moved into place. They are a team, they don’t need to talk. It is 7:10. 

7:15. Dave grabs his keys to move the cars out of the way and do other helpful preparations. He puts a bucket over a sprinkler head that looks like a tripping hazard. He lifts the gate off its hinges to make their pathway easier. He sends a text message to our neighbor who is already at work to let him know that the trees will soon be trimmed and our mutual sunrise view will be brighter. On the practical side, next wildfire we will be less inviting targets for the sparks that jump from tree to tree.

7:28. The first man starts his engine. He has made the command decision that it was all right to let the noisemaking begin. Next the man in the back kicks his engine into motion followed by the one on the side. 

The saws begin to talk to each other, “rumm rumm” in back, “rawr rawr” in the front, “row row row” on the side. 8:00 and there is a tiny break in sound. Rest the motors, move the cut limbs, hydrate and oil.

8:20. It is still silent. Are they done? I peek out the kitchen window to look at the bird’s nest tree. It is done. It looks light and airy but there is still plenty of cover for the turtledove family who raise their babies there. Beautiful job, pleasing to the eye, safe for the annual nest.

8:30. A new engine starts, in front. The muncher is starting to chomp the limbs into wood chips. Hmmmm-a- rummm hmmm-a-rumm. Nothing will be wasted. This one is right outside my office window. Time to relocate to a quieter spot. Breakfast time.

The sounds are comforting rather than disruptive. Sergio’s crew is skilled, professional and thoughtful. They love their trees and take pride in their work. The contributions of people like these make a gathering of houses into a village. I don’t ask whether they waited in a long line to come to America, if they snuck across a border from another country or another state, or if they were always here. They are part of my village. I am grateful for their help and protection.

•  Patricia Holtz Adams, Chaos Manor ©7/11/19