In “The Virgin Suicides,” Grosse Pointe native Jeffrey Eugenides’ first novel, he uses the dying elm trees of the 1970s as a metaphor. Leans a little too heavily on it for my taste, but that’s me and J.E.; I like his books fine, but stop short of love.
Anyway, this is another Summer of the Doomed Trees. Cock an ear, and you can hear chippers almost every day, somewhere around our neighborhoods. It’s not elms this year but ash trees, thanks to the emerald ash borer. Our next-door neighbors have a particularly nice specimen in their front yard, and have spared no expense in trying to spare it; a man comes every month or so to treat it with pesticides and other potions.
But it’s an exception. All over the Pointes, you can see ash trees wtih neon-colored Xs on the trunk, the arborist’s kiss of death. Oh, it’s so, so sad. I feel a metaphor coming on.
Sometimes a tree disease is just a tree disease. Diversify your rootstock and prune regularly.
Alcohol: Cause of, and solution to, all of life’s problems. More on the missing-arm case. (Warning: As of this morning, the Freep servers were either drunk or had molasses poured in their works. FYI.)
Have a great weekend.