There comes a time, in every one's life when we realize, come to terms with, accept, or just plain discover we're not kids anymore. For some, it's a slow evolution, a gray hair here, a wrinkle..uhemm...expression line there. Years of small signs lead up to the moment of awareness. For a few though, we remain in denial of our impending death. We Act, dress, and feel like our high school days never ended. Then, one day, it hits us. Like a runaway ore ship into the pier, we are kicked in the groin by our own awareness. That day for me, the day my youth died, came as I attempted to take town a huge pine tree that was upsetting my house's footings. That was the turning point of my life. The day my adolescent spirit and virility flowed out of me like a bad fish burrito.
I was a master of my world. Strong, invincible, skilled, and fearless. I took on any challenge, task, or feat. I was voraciously competitive and yielded to no one. I was unable to conceive of paying someone to do any work I was capable of doing myself. I had worked in many trades. I labored in construction, sweat over a hot griddle, tossed newspapers, and busted tires. I have climbed poles, swung a chainsaw, and hauled ropes. This giant tree in my front yard, the sap drooling, cone spitting, three headed monster wasn't going to beat me. It had its talonous roots under the foundation of my house and was tearing my domicile apart, but I would prevail.
I had a plan. I had the tools and equipment. I had the know how. I had the strength and endurance. Or so I thought. My arrogance and vanity were all I really had. Those were quickly ripped away, chewed, digested, and regurgitated right back in my face by the devil of reality himself. Within minutes of taking on my arboreal nemesis, I was shown humility. It was too big, too heavy, and too precariously suspended over my home and the neighbors power lines. A near miss to the motorhome windshield, a direct hit later to the driveway (now possessing a ten foot crack), and the searing pain of a torn shoulder muscle brought me around to accept that I, was in over my head.
Bruised, sore, and deflated. I swallowed my pride, embraced defeat, and sought help. Good bye young self.
I found Roy Schwartz after a long search of tree trimmers. Most had no insurance, were un-licensed, or were just downright creepy. Prices ranged from the ridiculously low to the insanely high. I went through phone book listings, door flyers, and even cold callers. I had somewhat given up when a neighbor had Roy employed to trim some trees. Nothing better than an actual referral. Prompt, courteous, well equipped, and most importantly, licensed and insured, Roy was a perfect fit for the job. His fee was more than reasonable. He was very flexible to my tight schedule. And he honored my unusual request to allow me do some of the ground work. This gesture served to save at least one morsel of my dignity, a last clinging crumb of my juvenescence.
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