I’m an unabashed tree hugger.

Some of my happiest memories are times spent outdoors, surrounded by trees.

I remember the Wasatch Front in spring with the fluttering leaves of the cottonwood. The Uintas in summer with the evergreens reaching all the way up to the stars. A Southern Utah drive down to the Grand Canyon in fall, when the Aspen quaked and shouted its golden beauty in between the green-black depth of the forest.

I recall flying to Ohio annually in the fall, just to see the leaves turning from green to orange, yellow, or crimson.

That thrill never leaves me!

Here in the Deep South, the trees have adapted to their hurricane blown environs. The live oaks are squat, with branches touching the ground or bending to get there, draped in Spanish moss, and covered in grey green assortments of lichen. Their leaves don’t turn colors in the fall – they drop by the thousands, small and firm from the battles they have done with the winds over the years.

My yard doesn’t have any live oaks – they are protected by law, and cannot be cut down once their trunks reach a certain diameter.

Nevertheless, there are trees – lots of them.

They have provided shade for the backyard during the sweltering summer months.

They hold the nests of the squirrels that my German Shepherd loves to chase every day when the screen door squeaks open.

They wave furiously during each tropical disturbance, flinging lose acorns, leaves, and branches all over the yard as proof of their battle.

My son carved his initials into the largest tree, in a spontaneous act that now serves as a growth marker.

Right now, that tree is being felled.

After two decades in Florida, and a year of Covid time out, we decided to get a pool, and to make our back yard our own oasis.

Three trees will be felled to make this suburban dream come to pass.

I’m wincing as each large branch hits the ground. I can’t help but think of the years I have sat on the back patio, grilling dinner, watching the dogs, throwing the frisbee…all under the watchful branches of these three trees.

A couple of years ago, a mighty, muffled noise awoke me in the middle of the night. I ran outside and saw one of these trees had cleaved itself in two, and fallen in half – thankfully, away from the house. I ran my hand over the scar of the freshly torn wood, smelling the life of it strong in my nostrils, bare white wood glowing in the moonlight.

Piece by piece it was hauled off, but I wanted to keep the largest portion, perfect as a bench to sit by the fire pit.

Even as I spoke this wish, though, the humidity and moisture that is coastal Florida was working on this log. Rot would soon set in, and bugs were heading in for a feast on the dead wood.

The chain saw is buzzing furiously, and I don’t want to see these three go. I know there is a season for everything – and even as land is being laid bare and burned just a few miles away for new housing developments, I know I will miss the trees.

And yes…I hugged them all, and gave them all a prayer of thanks.