The Argument

It began as most disagreements do. A misunderstanding of ones intentions, a word taking on a meaning not associated with an action, stupidity. We all are capable of mistakes that find their way into a realm of interpretation. A time, a place, a venue that cajoles the worst from us. Later we stop and consider how it happened, why, but move on only after reassuring ourselves it will never happen again. And then it does.

Sometimes the impetus is too little or too much of a boost to ones ego to be of significance, sometimes not. Most arguments are merely challenges initiated in arrogance. One’s experiences contrasted against another’s in an effort to distinguish a presumptive foregone truth, from wishful thinking. It all seems innocuous at best, physical at times, and criminal when reason has been allowed to overwhelm the sense of morality we all carry with us, even if some of us keep it in our shoe for safe keeping.

It was on such a day Oscar Schmidt, a neighbor, decided this time he’d had enough. The political advertising displayed routinely on his lawn and fence could be ignored, even mocked. The lack of pride in the appearance of his yard, although a thorn in the psyche of those that past, overlooked. The dismantled car in the rear yard that would be restored one day to the perfection remembered in youth, when and if, he could only find the time. But the tree, that was crossing a line that could not be wished away, forgiven, or forgotten. When the tree came down, the neighborhoods collective sigh of disbelief could be heard echoing down the back alleys of unforgiveable offences, against the community of man.

Yes, it was his tree, more or less. It lived primarily on his property, but was cared for by the universe and the natural order of our cosmos. It accepted the rain, as well as the snow, without complaint. It pushed its leaves from its branches each spring for the previous two-hundred years, and allowed them to fall in pageant fashion, each fall. It watched neighbors come, many go, but always having foraged a memory in viewers by its sheer massive presence.

Oscar Schmidt was a practical sort of person. Everything in his opinion was meant to serve the needs of those who entertained them. He was the last to rake the trees leaves in the fall, or admire the emerging shades of green each spring. He found Esmeralda, a name provided the tree several generations earlier by a young girl who had lost her sister to an epidemic, a nuisance. It represented a spirit that lived, despite the frailty of human life, to the young girl, and unnecessary work for Oscar. 

Many neighborhood children over the years had offered to tend to the trees needs, but Oscar having a self-proclaimed affinity for privacy, or interference from outside sources, refused. I attempted to speak with him on several occasions after one of his patented outbursts against the tree. He had become obsessed by the tree and its intentions. His rantings against the tree, on more than one occasion resulted in police intervention. He had become convinced the tree not only hated him, but was attempting to turn the neighborhood against him.

Being a religious man, as well as one devoted to the antics of politics, he had convinced himself he was being possessed by the trees spirit. Yes, he had come from a family of loggers and saw mill workers, but he himself he argued, only used what God provided, for the means He intended.

It was difficult if not impossible to speak rationally about the importance of the tree to the community. He saw nothing but board feet of lumber disrespecting his wishes by depositing its waste, on and around his home. “Clogging my gutters, killing my grass, littering the sidewalk,” his boisterous complaints reverberating up and down the block of homes adjoining his.

In the early morning hours, on a cold and windy November night, I was awakened by a persistent noise. The inevitable mosquito in the tent kind of noise, that draws your attention, only to it. I listened from the confines of my bed until I could contain my curiosity no longer. It sounded as though the noise was emanating from the west side of my home. I went across the hall to my upstairs office and peered out the window. 

The leaves of the old tree were all but gone, the strong winds attempted to dislodge the stubborn reminders of fall, but failed. I slid the window open, and could see below me something odd. It appeared to be someone doing something to the tree. A light shined on the tree’s trunk, but the figure remained hidden by the massive trunk of the tree, so I was unable to distinguish who it might be, or what was occurring. 

I went downstairs and put on my coat, slipped on my boots, and headed into the cold to find the nature of the disturbance. As I rounded the fence that separated my yard from Oscar Schmidt’s the noise abruptly stopped. I stopped as well, hoping to better ascertain the origin of the abrupt silence, when I heard the fateful cry, “Timber.”

I looked at the tree which seemed for a moment to lean towards my house, and then as quickly, towards the alley. I then heard the unmistakable whip like crack of the trunk being separated from its rooted system. I watched from the front walk as the tree appeared to pirouette and turn as a ballet dancer would, and then appear to grow more formidable as it came towards me.

I then heard a scream I shall never forget. The one large branch that had shaded my side yard found itself imbedded in the roof of the Schmidt house. The weight of the tree bore down on the structure, causing the roof to collapse onto the upper floors. The windows exploded as if a giant had exhaled from inside the home. The upper story proceeded in cartoonish fashion to the main floor where the walls were forced outward like a flattened cardboard box, a house of disturbed cards. 

The shouting and profanity continued during the entire proceeding, and did not stop until the roof lay over the sleeping bones of the house. Oscar Schmidt stood next to a chainsaw, his eyes inflamed with hate, staring in shock at the repercussions of his actions. 

I had seen enough. Vengeance is a difficult thing to understand as it rarely accomplishes the intended goal. But in this case, as I crawled back into bed with the reassuring sounds of silence, I dozed peacefully off.

I normally don’t remember my dreams, but for some reason this night proved to be exceptional. I watched as Esmerelda, like Joan of Arc, rode steadfastly through the enemy lines, capturing the evil prince, and destroying his castle.

I was awakened at first light by the sirens. I pulled myself from the beds comfort, and walked once again to the window of the office. The yard of Oscar Schmidt was a beehive of activity. Firemen, emergency management personnel, and our local police, standing in guarded silence as Oscar berated my old friend, kicking at times at the large branch now lying on the ground before him. 

I could do little but smile and draw the figure of a smiling madman in the frost on the window. 

When vengeance is the last resort, I trust that karma cannot be far behind, for it has a way of remembering the presumptive forgone truth that resides just out of the reach of those who forget, to remember.