Stump
by Eric Miller
The farthest
reaching branches of the white birch trees, which
lined the perimeter of the field, gently made
contact with each other. It was a beautiful site,
except for one far corner, where the ground
dipped into a basin like depression where a
rotting stump barely kept it's head above the
pooled, muddy water. It was an eyesore, as well
as a source of a foul smell. The neighbors who
lived closest to it complained constantly about
the odor and begged me to have the stump removed.
Naturally, the situation made me very
uncomfortable, weighed heavily on me, and
ultimately wore me down. I relented and got
someone to give me an estimate to remove it.
"It will
be a big job," the contractor said, as he
scanned the field and poked about. "The
flooded corner is a problem and the roots look
like they go deep in every direction. It even
looks like there are some underground electrical
wires which I will have to be careful not to
damage."
This was
really not what I wanted to hear. As far as I was
concerned, Mother Nature was just doing her thing,
and who was anyone to make such a big deal about
it. The water would eventually evaporate, and the
sun would dry the wet, rotting stump. Time would
heal. A rush, expensive project with inevitable
complications was the last thing my strained
budget needed.
After a
lengthy discussion and some gentle haggling, we
agreed on a price and a day to do what needed to
be done. But wouldn't you know it, old Murphy's
Law reared it's ugly head, and something that
could go wrong, did. The contractor called to say
he was running late. When he finally arrived, I
was tired and irritable, which he couldn't
understand, since he was the one who was going to
do all the work, not me. He set up a sump pump,
and then he made a trench around the stump with
his backhoe. Slipping a hat onto his head from
which hung a protective, clear plastic visor, he
began to section off pieces of the stump with his
jagged tooth spinning blade. A crowbar alone was
insufficient to lift up the far reaching roots,
so he exposed a wider circle around what
was left. Patiently he proceeded to cut each
portion of the exposed roots and lift them out
piece by piece.
Although it
was a cool, damp, autumn day, he sweated
profusely as he struggled to overcome the
resistance he faced. Finally, he stepped back,
removed his visored hat, wiped his brow, and
proclaimed victory, with visible relief.
He cleaned up
the site, which proved more challenging than he
expected, as the soggy, gummy surface stuck to
every tool he used. He said the railroad looking
tire tracks would not remain permanently.
"One
wisdom tooth down, and three to go," he
announced, as I held an ice-pack to my face.
"See you next week to take out the stitches."
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