Fruits of our labors

Parents the world over are secure in the knowledge that their children are the best of a generation--smart, kind, talented beyond measure. This weekend we had confirmation of that--NOT THAT WE NEEDED IT!

We were honored to attend the premier of a Christmas play, THE FAMILY FRUITCAKE, by our daughter, Rebecca Frohling. She not only has penned a holiday classic but guided her work through the workshop process at the Albright Theatre and stuck with it during rewrites, suggestions, and long nights of rehearsals.

The result is a funny, fast-moving story that is heartwarming without being sappy. The cast, directed by Tricia Hewson and Veronica Krystal, brought the 20 (!) characters to life and made us believe in family, no matter how many nuts the family and fruitcake contains.

If you're in the Batavia, IL area, give yourself an early Christmas present and attend THE FAMILY FRUITCAKE, December 14, 15, and 16.

Now to drop my mommy-theater critic persona for a moment, fruit is in the future here also.

The fruits trees I ordered from the Arbor Day group finally arrived and we planted: 4 apples, 2 peaches, and 2 cherry trees. I have had limited success with fruit trees but have great hopes for these. After all, a garden is the embodiment of hope.

We're not lumberjacks, but we're ok.

Really.

No casualties, no crushed legs or feet, no gushing blood.

We did loosen some stones in the fire ring, land a limb on the play set, get the chain stuck a few times, damage part of the chicken fence, and my back seized a few times.

I'll start at the beginning.




After the first limb was cut (I forgot to get a "before" shot).


One of the few large trees on our property was an elm tree. Of the three main trunks, two were dead and one was looking to pass over.
It needed to come down.

We've got an electric chainsaw, have read the Paul Bunyan stories, and are gifted with a great store of optimistic stupidity; we could do this ourselves.

The first trunk was going to be easy. The only things in its path were the fire ring, maybe the compost pile, and us, if it fell wrong. Tom cut a notch and it fell where it was supposed to; we were giddy with success. Not so bubbly after spending hours cutting it up and stacking the wood.

The next day I had to reset some of the ceramic tiles and couldn't grout yet (teaser for another article) so we decided to tackle the next dead piece.

This one had a clear field to fall. Except for the silver maple tree next to it and the play set. But we had all of that experience now and had improved our safety procedure (I now made sure to stand where Tom could see me wave my arms and shout "Move! Move!).

It hung up a bit on the maple and play set, and this is where the saw got stuck a few times, but it was down.

Then we tapped into that deep reservoir of can-do spirit (a.k.a. half-wittedness) and, after a rest and some ibuprofen,  went to face the challenge of the remaining limb.

The remaining limb. The live one. The one hanging directly over the chicken coop and fence.

The strategy: loop a rope over the limb, Cindy pull with all her mighty might, Tom cut, and hope for the best.

The reality: Cindy's might ain't, the rope broke, and the coop roof only has a few dents and the fence can be fixed.



Photo cleverly NOT showing the banged-up fence.



All in all, a successful venture. However, I am grateful that our other trees are hale and healthy (although there's that Scotch Pine with carpenter ants...) because I intend to retire my plaid coat, sell the Blue Ox, and hang up the ax.