I'm pretty sure it was the first town meeting I've ever attended.

For our town, anyway. Been to a fair number for the neighboring community, oddly enough. But our town never managed to get me upset.

Until now.

So, we were late. Yet timed it about perfect. And probably took more of the council's time than we should have.

But they were polite. They listened. They explained. And they agreed we had good points.

Poor Larry. His routine agenda item became the only controversy of the night, thanks to us.

And then there was another meeting. An informal gathering of vultures around the soon to be departed. Us, and eldest son. And the arborist, and the construction manager, and a town councilman.

They sympathized. They understood.

But nothing changed.

When I pointed out our Siberian elms can't be treated like weak, old cottonwoods, the arborist agreed. When I pointed out the three healthy elms surviving similar root damage 13 years ago, he hobbled over to show us the root rot that inevitably follows.

And discovered there was none.

Just the same, no one will guarantee that a tree that has had all its roots cut on one side won't blow down.

Therefore, it goes down now.

End of discussion.

End of fifty years of life, care, and shade.

Fuck.