“Yeah. Uh,notcut it down.”
He turned to me. “How tall do you think this tree is?”
“Fifty feet?”
“Close to a hundred, Stevie Wonder.”
I slapped his arm.
“And how deep is your backyard?”
“At the risk of being chastised, I’ll say thirty feet.”
“Exactly. If that tree falls, it’s demolishing your cabin and everything inside it.”
“How do you know it’s sick?”
He picked up a handful of needles from the ground. “See how these aren’t only brown, but have thin, black stripes in them? And look at the pine cones. See the black spots? This tree is infected with a fungus called Diplodia. It’s a bitch, ’scuse my language.”
“Can you save it?”
“Nope. Too far gone.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sure it will survive the spring.”
“No. It will make good firewood for you for the rest of this cold snap.”
“I don’t do fires.”
He turned fully to me and blinked as if I’d told him whiskey and scotch were the same thing.
“You do now.” He replied simply.
“You sure are good at telling people what to do, you know that?”
“Yes.” He shifted his focus from the dying tree to my cabin. “You got a trimmer?”
“Trimmer for what?”
“The shrubs that line your house need to be either removed or cut back. All of them.”
“No way. They just flowered. I don’t know what they are, but I love them.”
“Forsythias. You can plant them somewhere else.”
“I’m leaving them.”
“Then you’re leaving a perfect place for someone to hide before breaking into your house again. The tree by your carport also needs to be removed. Same reason. Come on. Walk behind me. There’s a mud puddle here.” I kept ahold of the back of his shirt as he walked and continued, “You’ll need motion-activated lights on all four corners of your house. I’ll order them from Tad.”
“Who’s Tad?”
“Tad’s Tool Shop.”
“I’ll get them.”
