Thursday 12.17.2009 | 4:23 AM UTC
A Tree Falls In Ithaca
In 2006 my wife and I bought our first house. Not in Brooklyn, mind you, but in the far-off lands of upstate New York in the town of Ithaca. Why the hell for would we want to live in the “most progressive city in the country,” (bullshit), a town where it’s cold as fuck from October thru April, the sun never shines, the offical car is the Subaru Outback and the town is entirely populated by insulated Ivy League kids and aging hippies. Not to mention the worst fucking drivers, worse than the South.
Why indeed? My brainy wife Yula was accepted to Cornell for a well-funded PhD program in Ecology and Evolutionary Biology . She was thrilled, I was less so. I mean, no way in hell I’m moving up there. I mean, my business is here in Brooklyn, right? But who am I to keep the love of my life from self-actualizing? No way. So we ended up with our city home and our country home. How upscale. Who’da thought.
So we buy this awesome house: four bedrooms, tons of light, half-acre of land, large porch with a stunning view of the valley…. plus an apple tree, frequent visits from a family of deer and a fat-ass groundhog we’ve come to call Fatty McFatty. Pretty fucking sweet.
But there’s a catch. This lovely house on the hill is accessed by a driveway with a 45-degree pitch. Try gettin’ up that in a foot of snow, Outback or no… Well, this minor to major annoyance poses a second problem of which you will soon learn, for this is where the real story begins…
We arrived with a moving van on a sunny summer Sunday in August. The following Monday we set out for the inevitable stocking-up trip to Lowe’s, Home Depot, Target, Wegman’s etc. Post-modern malaise aside, shopping can be so much fun, n’est pas? Well, this fun day was coming to a close as we stood in the checkout line of our final destination. Sudden bolt of lightnight, very very frightening, me. Mama Mia. The entire length of Target shook with the clap of thunder. Walking outside we find the parking lot a-wash with the fragrant remnants of a summer thunder storm. Now that’s country livin’, consumer habits not withstanding.
We arrive at our humble new home laden with packages and as we begin shlepping up the stairs towards the side door I notice it: a tree branch, about 12 feet long, not much thicker than an athlete’s forearm. Ably, I toss it aside, unlock the door, and plop the first round of packages in the kitchen.
Walking back out, that’s when I see it: One of our trees, a 70ft giant, split into thirds–one of which has crashed onto the roof of the house. Instead of cries horror and dismay, Yula and I break into spontaneous peals of laughter. First home, first day, big-ass tree on top of the house. Almost simultaneously we summon the appropriate scene from The World According to Garp. A small plane had crashed into their house on their first day of occupancy… a statistic anomaly that christens the home with 30+ years of good luck.
It’s difficult to discern the damage in the pitch black of the yard, but our badass Maglite puts enough light on the subject to assess the damage. Miraculously, it appears to be minimal. We think.
Next morning, in the light of day, we’re relieved that the roof has not caved in – only our satellite dish (installed less than 48 hours prior) had been crushed beyond repair. A quick search on the internet leads us to Limbwalker Treecare. Contrary to any future experience with service professionals in the area, they arrive promtly, within a couple of hours. Boy do they arrive, too.
A young strapping man strides confidently up the driveway to greet us, at which point I can actally feel my wife’s knees go weak. He’s a dreamboat. Manly, yet delicate. Lithe, tall and outdoorsy and carrying a bunch of ropes and power tools. I gotta admit, I was a little smitten myself. Letting my wife catch her breath and regain her composure, I tell him our amusing tale and get him started on the survey… and this is where pictures speak louder than words.
