George

I met George when I moved into my house over 9 years ago.

My office overlooks his backyard patio.

I would often smell him before I would see him.

His cigar smoke would waft into my office.

George was 81 when I moved in. Like me, he lived alone. His wife had died a few years before.

To commemorate my move into my new house I planted a tiny Redwood sapling. I planted it a few feet from the fence that separated our houses.

Within a couple of years the sapling I’d planted grew to tower above the fence.

A few times a year George would peer at me over the fence, cigar hanging off his lip and grunt, “You planted that tree too close to my house. It’s going to uproot my house someday.”

He was really upset about the tree I’d planted.

I tried to laugh it off each time: “Yeah, I didn’t know what I was doing when I planted that tree. I shouldn’t have planted it there.”

Then he’d shrug his shoulders and say in a matter-of-fact way:  “Aw hell, I’m not gonna live to see my house uprooted. What does it matter?”

This banter about the tree became a ritual for us.

Even though I’d laugh off his comments, after a couple of years of this I began to get annoyed that he kept bringing up the damn tree.

And even though he would shrug his shoulders and walk off leaving a trail of cigar smoke, George was really upset about that tree.

This annoyance and upset between us went on for a few years to the point that, instead of talking to me about it over the fence, he began muttering behind the fence about ‘that damn tree’.

I would hear him talking with his old friends on the patio below my office. He would talk about me and the tree:  ‘she planted that damn tree….what was she thinking….so close to my house.’

The tree grew and grew.

The tree became a wall between us.

Two years ago I was in my office working late one night and I heard a noise coming from George’s patio.

It was a low groan.

I thought it was one of the many possums or raccoons that live around my house.

The sound grew louder.

I opened my office window and I heard a voice say, ‘Help.’

It was George. He was on the patio, curled on his side.

“George! Are you okay?”

“I fell,” he said.

“I’ll be right there.”

A light rain was falling. It was a cold winter night. As I raced to his house I wondered how long he’d been on the ground.

“I hate being old,” were the first words he said when I arrived.

“Yeah, being old is hard,” I said.

“What do you know? You’re not old.” He stared up at me from the ground.

“I can imagine it is hard,” I said.

“How the hell am I going to get up?” He asked.

“I’ll help you up.”

“You can’t lift me. You aren’t strong enough,” he said.

“Yes, I am.”

His groan sounded like a freight train as I struggled to pull him to standing.

His knee was shaking.

“Damn knee. Damn body. I miss playing golf. I hate getting old,” he muttered as he walked gingerly into his house.

The next day I was in my office and I heard, “Hello! Hello!”

It was George on his cane. Shouting at my window from his patio.

I opened my office window and leaned out.

“You saved my life last night. I’d still be out there if it wasn’t for you.”

George was smiling. I’d never seen him smile before. I’d only known George as a grump.

“It was nothing, George. I’m glad I was here to help,” I said, smiling back.

“You know, I’ve been really upset about that damn tree,” he said.

“Yes, I know you have.”

“And I’m still upset about that tree. That hasn’t changed. It was stupid to plant it so close to my house.”

“It was stupid,” I admitted.

We were grinning at each other. He below on his patio, me leaning out of my office window.

“I think you should cut it down.”

“I love that tree. I don’t want to cut it down,” I replied.

“Aw hell. I know you love that tree. I just wish you’d cut it down. It’s gonna uproot my house someday.”

A month later George fell again.  I heard his moaning one afternoon. I ran over to hoist him back up to standing.

“You saved my life twice. You are a real angel,” he said. “Wanna come in and have a scotch?”

It was 2 on a Tuesday afternoon.

“No thanks George, I have to go back to work,” I said.

“God, I used to be so upset with you. That damn tree. But you’ve saved my life twice now. I can’t be upset with you. But I still want you to cut down that tree.”

His knee was shaking. He looked so fragile leaning on his cane.

“Would it make you happy if I cut that tree down?”

“Yes,” he grinned. His face lit up. “It really would. That damn tree is gonna uproot my house someday.”

I couldn’t believe I was going to say what I was about to say.

Because: I love trees. Love them. My heart hurts when they get cut down. When I see a fresh stump I feel a bit sick inside. When I see people and tree services cutting down trees I feel a sadness deep in my soul. That’s why what I was about to say was so surprising to me.

“Okay.” I said.

“Okay?!” He looked at me, stunned.

“George, if cutting down that tree will make you happy then I will do it.”

A few days later George paid to have the tree cut down. Before the tree service came I touched its rough, red bark and whispered a prayer.  I felt its peace in being sacrificed for an old, grumpy man who would die (perhaps) a happy man.

I went inside when the tree service cut my tree down. I couldn’t watch.

When they left I came out to look at it. Only a stump remained.

It was horrible to see the stump. My heart hurt to see my friend, the redwood I’d planted years before, gone. I felt terribly guilty.

I wondered if I’d made a mistake.

A couple months later a Redwood sapling appeared beside the stump.

Then another.

And another.

I smiled. The tree was not dead.

It was our little secret: me and the tree.

Until the tree grew above the fence.

“That damn tree is back!” George said one day over the fence, his cigar hanging out of his mouth.

Oh shit.

George and I stared at each other.

I could feel the tree staring at me and George.

It was quiet while the three of us stared at one another.

“Oh well, I won’t live long enough to see it uproot my house,” he grunted and walked away.

The tree and I heaved a sigh of relief.

Two days before I left to go on my trip George called me up on the phone.

“I want to give you something for your trip. Come over and get it,” he said in his gruff, endearing voice.

He led me to his office and sat down at his roll top desk.

He wrote me a check and handed it to me.

It was for $25.

“I want you to buy a cocktail on me. Have a good time. I’m going to miss you, you know.”

We looked at each other and grinned and I gave him a hug.

“Wear that call button, George. So if you fall someone can come help you. I won’t be here to rescue you if you fall,” I said.

“Oh that damn thing. What a pain. I hate that button. I hate getting old.”

We said goodbye.

I mailed George a postcard from Bali.

When I got back from my trip I noticed his house was quiet. It had always been quiet but it was

QUIET.

Oh no.

George.

Two days after I got back I heard a noise outside of my office.

George!

I opened my office window and leaned out to look.

But it wasn’t George. It was his daughter moving something from his house.

“My dad died three days after you left, Kristin. He had a stroke. When I checked his mail I got your postcard from Bali but there was no way for me to tell you that he’d died. My dad really liked you.  He really did. I don’t know if you know this about him but he didn’t like very many people.”

“Yes, I did know that about him,” I smiled.

We laughed.

I miss George. I miss the smell of his cigar smoke wafting into my office on a hot summer night. His leaning over the fence, complaining about that damn tree. I miss rescuing him from his patio and hoisting him to standing.

I miss my grumpy old friend.