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Rated: E · Essay · Biographical · #2248251
He chopped down the burning bush...
Granted, the burning bush in the front-side yard was truly immense as burning bush bushes go. It was tall and full, wide and glorious. It totally blocked the neighbors next door. (In my mind, an extraordinarily good thing!)

In the autumn it turned blazing red. It sparked the season's change as no other tree in our yard. Our maple tree isn't one to inspire leaf-peepers; it just turns a yellowy-brown, nothing inspiring. The birches turn yellow and rain leaves. The burning bush was a glorious pop of crimson.

Granted, on our side of the property line, it had overhanging branches that made mowing the grass beneath it problematic. I get that. (I'd happily do the mowing there, except no one on the planet mows straight enough lines to please my hubby.)

Granted, on their side, it was trying its darnedest to take over their driveway. No pity there, it is what they get for putting a driveway right to the property line. They chopped off offending and encroaching branches every now and then and it was fine.

BUT. Our dog used to lie under its branches in the heat of the summer when she was outside with us. Birds built nests there every year. It was beautiful. I loved that stupid bush.

Hubby said it was unruly. Unruly. It was a bush, trying to be a tree, growing well. It was healthy. No, he insisted it was unruly, growing much bigger than a 'bush' (using the air quotes) should grow. Hubby is, ah, I suppose you could call it angular. No branches less than seven feet from the ground. Nothing requiring ducking whilst mowing. Neat. RULY.

Hah! He insists (been doing a lot of that lately) that the 'stump' will be covered in leaves in a few weeks. He says to give it 'til the end of summer and it will be just fine. Trust me, he says. Uh-huh. No.

More, he doesn't understand me at all! "But, but, you said I could take it down." I did. Sort of. I said, "Okay," in the way one does when they are tired of arguing about something. It's like saying, "Fine." when not only it isn't but won't be.

After fifteen years, he should know that. But no. "You aren't making any sense at all. Okay, means okay." Um, no. It doesn't. It means if you really want to kill that perfectly good bush, fine. Kill it. It does not mean I am happy with the concept. It does not mean I am agreeing with you. It does not mean I am okay with it. At all. I mean it is on page two of the 'Marriage Rules.'* Rule: If she says 'fine' or 'okay' in an upset tone of voice, trust ME, it isn't fine and it is NOT okay. Whatever it is, don't do it.

Now he tells me he's off to go dump 'the stuff' in the back of his pick-up. So the glorious burning bush is now reduced to 'stuff.' Sigh. It is, I suppose. Sadly.

All that's left is a multi-pronged stump. Oh, and a glorious view of all the neighbor's assorted cars and 'stuff' in their junk-laden driveway.








* Marriage Rules is a book I'm writing because there isn't one and there should be.





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