Little house in the forest

One of my earliest childhood memories was a version of "Woodman, spare that tree!"  I couldn't have been more than three years old.  We had moved into our first house, a newly-built house sold to us completely devoid of landscaping. 

Our front yard had become a mass of four-foot high, yellow-flowering mustard plants.  Using scythes (this was some time ago!), my dad and some helpers had begun leveling the mustard, in preparation for planting a more conventional lawn.

I cried.

The mustard was so beautiful, I couldn't bear to see it cut down.  

Jump ahead a couple of centuries, to the present.  Every two years or so, I reach this same crisis.  While I'm pretty good at mowing my lawn -- my aghast neighbors will at least grant me that -- I tend to let the rest of the landscaping go.  Ivy is nice, I tell myself -- around the yard, across the sidewalks, covering the brick walls.  The shrubbery is getting a bit large, I admit, but it's attractive shrubbery.  The hedge is so high that my neighbor suggests that perhaps he would like more sun in his yard, but that's his problem.

Finally, I reach the stage you see in the photo above.  Neighbors look curiously at my house as they walk by.  Kids are afraid of whatever creature lives within.  Tour buses pause in front, while a guide spins fanciful yarns about my house and its owner, and his clients aim cameras out the windows.

It's time.  I know it is.  I put it off week by week.  Soon it will be the rainy season, and branches covered with water will slap me in the face as I leave the house.  Procrastination is no longer possible.

I had a guy take a look at the yard yesterday.  His eyes lit up, flashing dollar signs.  He smiled avariciously as I pointed out things that needed doing.

He'll be here Monday.  I'm sad.  It's not the money, although I'm sad about that as well.  If it weren't for the neighbors -- the cause of so many treasons against one's better nature -- I'd allow myself to sink deeper and deeper into the beautiful, dense foliage until only dimly green, filtered sunlight would work its way down through my windows. 

It's like the men cutting down the mustard.  Woodman, spare those bushes, that ivy, that overgrown hedge.  But I fret in vain.

After Monday, I'll live in a less bushy -- and to some, more attractive -- home.  But, I remind myself, brightly, it's like a bad haircut. It always grows back!