A COUPLE FROM SOUTH FLORIDA moved into my neighborhood a few years ago. They weren’t there long when they had three large trees taken out of their yard. I asked her why. She said she was afraid that one of the trees might fall on her house. I wondered why she hadn’t bought a home that wasn’t surrounded by trees, similar to south Florida where builders seem to clear cut everything before putting in homes. “Suburbia,” wrote Bill Vaughan, “is where the developer bulldozes out the trees, then names the streets after them.” Fortunately, where I live in north Florida, trees are treated more respectfully. My home is bounded by large trees on all sides and, though I confess to some anxiety on those occasions when hurricanes come close, I would consider it sacrilege to take out a tree unless it was provably diseased. Although I’m not so far gone that I secretly worship trees in some warped sort of naturalistic pantheism, I do admit that, were reincarnation real, I’d like to return to life as a live oak. So I admit to being a so-called tree hugger, just like Woody Allen, who quipped: “As the poet said, ‘Only God can make a tree’ – probably because it’s so hard to figure out how to get the bark on.”
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