I proclaimed a day of rest, most of
which I spent psyching myself up to the ‘battle of the stumps’
Looking back I find it quite amazing
that what I had originally supposed to be multiple small plants were
in fact only three, probably placed into the earth a long, long time
ago. They had stood the test of time, avoiding being consumed by
dinosaurs and remaining steadfast while the first inhabitants of this
land battled the elements to carve out an existence for themselves.
And all the while they grew, spreading out to claim new territory.
They had survived war and strife and trial by fire as General
Sherman’s troops invaded this fair land, and they had become
stronger from the ordeal, thicker and more determined. They had even
prevailed against the ongoing progress of the twentieth century,
avoiding the bulldozers and earth movers which are the henchmen of
urban development, such a long history they had endured only to die
at the determined hands of a would be landscaper, Sentenced to death
by finger crusher for the heinous crime of being "too green."
But the project was now beyond the
point of no return and the stumps had to be removed. I was pretty
sure that I would be violating numerous local ordinances as well as
sections of the homeland security act if I was to employ dynamite or
some other high explosive substance to eradicate the stubborn stumps,
and so with a great lack of enthusiasm I set to work with
conventional methods
The first one only took two hours. Two
sweaty painful hours of digging and tugging, straining and grunting
as I attempted to wrestle it from the ground. The second one was more
difficult and left me spent. It also claimed my shovel as a victim,
as I tried to get some leverage by sliding the shovel blade under one
of the larger roots. My expectation was that the force would cause
the stump to surrender its grip on the dense clay and be wrenched
from the ground. But it was the shovel that was to admit defeat and
with a staccato crack the wooden handle snapped, but in relinquishing
it life the digging implement had loosened the stump enough that I
was able to remove it after just three short hours.
The third one was the worst. I had
deliberately left it for last in the hope that a miracle would occur.
I considered that it was possible that a kindly farmer would happen
by and offer me the use of his tractor, or a bus load of Olympic
weight lifters, lost in suburban Atlanta would, pause their journey long
enough to volunteer their assistance. I even considered the
possibility that a herd of deer would happen by and devour it,
perhaps as compensation for the consumption of the cherry trees. But
needless to say none of these things happened. .
For the rest of the day armed with only
a hand trowel and a crow bar I loosened and removed as much of the
surrounding soil as I possibly could and then I grappled with the
root and pulled. And pulled, And twisted and tugged, and then pulled
again. I was definitely moving but not coming out. I couldn’t tell
what caused it to remain planted to the earth, but I carried on. I
dug my heals into the dirt, bent over, grabbed the resilient wooden
mass and attempted to straighten up my body. I feel sure that a
chiropractor or a spinal surgeon would have advised me against such a
strategy, but neither was present. I took a deep breath and strained
a mighty strain, and for a moment I seamed that I felt some movement,
but it was difficult to know for sure because just about then I began
to lose consciousness. As the lightheadedness and delirium overtook
me I experienced a fleeting vision of the roots extending down all
the way thought he earth to emerge as another juniper plant somewhere
just outside of a small Chinese village with an unpronounceable name.
There an entire Chinese family would be gathered round their Juniper
bush holding onto it for dear life as it descended into the earth.
There was a loud crack. Not unlike the
sound of the shovel’s demise, but in this case it wasn’t the
shovel. It was my back
By the afternoon of the forth day the
stump was removed. I stood trembling before a pile of ruined tools, a
feeble shell of a man, broken and bent, bloody but victorious. I
surveyed the terrain before me. The juniper was at last gone. In its
place was an expanse of brown uneven rock filled clay and at the
location from which the resilient and overgrown juniper bushes had
sprang forth, three large irregular shaped craters stood testament to
a once proud shrub. All that remained was to convert this barren
surface into something more beautiful involving the colorful plants.
This would be no trifling accomplishment considering that current
view looked more like a missile test range than a garden
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Stephen R. Drage
Author: MUD LANE
