A Tale Of Two Trees

Consider the Norway maple (Acer platanoides). This is a tree that deserves to be in a special education program big time. The shallow and fibrous roots go everywhere, strangle everything, and eventually girdle the tree itself, effectively choking itself to death. The Mayor, naturally, urges planting them all over Toronto.

All this surged into my consciousness when Ahmed, who likes to fix things around the Manor when he spots trouble, noticed yesterday that no water was reaching the main house. He quickly switched to our Artesian well , then went to explore just what was going on. Two hours later, he had the answer.

"It's that tree down by the road, My Lady," he said. "The one you don't like. The roots have pierced the water pipe that leads to the house."

"Well, Ahmed, just arrange for someone to cut it down. It's an eyesore anyway."

"Er, ...it may not be that simple."

"Nonsense," I replied. "The estate three lots down the road just cut one down, in almost the same location near to the road. I remember mentally applauding -- it is a very silly tree."

"Well, said Ahmed, "they got permission to bring it down."

"So get the necessary permission."

And there was the rub. Apparently there are in this tax-ridden city a group of tree police, (a.k.a. Urban Forestry staff) who refused permission, indicating that the tree was healthy and a significant and valuable part of the urban forest. An arborist whom I consulted said this was rubbish, the tree was actually dangerous, and should come down immediately. But she was a knowledgeable arborist, and hence unlikely to be part of the mayor's Urban Forestry staff. At that point I turned to my Councillor for help.

This man, whom I will call Peter X, was a decent, hard-working individual, who made it a point to respond quickly to concerns of constituents. There was, however, one big, black mark against him -- he was not part of the Mayor's inner circle of Council cronies, and he stated to me that while he would do his best, my chances were slim.

"But Peter," I argued, "The property three lots away just took down a tree in similar position."

"Simone, that property is in a different Ward, and that particular Councillor is part of the Executive Council"

"You mean the Mayor's Star Chamber."

"Oh, that's good. Henry VII would approve." (I told you he was decent and hard working. I should have mentioned that he was educated as well). "There is one Councillor, Joe X, that has, if you'll pardon the phrase, 'tree power'. Indeed, around Council he is known as The Italian Tree Emperor. Now if you could get him to agree --"

"He's Italian?" An idea was beginning to form. "Peter, say no more. I'll take it from there."

My next call was to an old enemy, but an enemy who owed me one. It was time to call in the marker. After some back and fill with various associates, I got him on the line.

"Pronto."

"Don Guido. Lady Simone Strunsky here."

There was a moment's silence, then came recognition. "Ah, Simone, how goes the saying? Ah, yes, 'Our eyes have met, our thighs not yet.'" Oh, c'mon, give him credit -- the guy was pushing eighty.

"My thighs are just fine, grazie. But I do need a small favour."

"And why should I do you a favour? After wrecking that nice little earner I was involved with in Bosnia. Really, bella."

"That was because you were supporting the trafficking of women. Which, I'm glad to say, I note that you've quit. Now, I ask you to remember a certain warehouse in Palermo."

There was a longer silence this time. What I hoped he was remembering was a very nasty bomb that had been planted by the Italian Red Brigade in said warehouse, a warehouse right next to a factory wherein most of the money extorted by the Sicilian Mafia was kept for later and careful disbursement. I, along with some British colleagues, had been instrumental in defusing that bomb, not, to be sure, to save the factory next door, but to save the city. Half of Palermo would have been blown to bits.

I was also hoping that he recalled the dozen roses he had sent to my London flat, along with a profuse thank you and the terse phrase, 'I owe you one.'

Finally, Don Guido spoke. "Si, I am a bit in your debt. What is the situation?

I explained, and was informed that 'he would make a few calls', to see what could be done. He also stressed that all debts were now repaid, to which I agreed. Too much dancing with the devil is dangerous. The devil won't change, but you will.

Two days later, a permit to cut down the tree arrived by Fed Ex, and shortly after that a city crew took down the tree, while at the same time a second city crew made short work of repairing my water pipe. Such service!

It was Irving (he can find out about most anything) who peeled the onion on this one, and I learned the following. Apparently, Joe X had initially resisted Don Guido's suggestion that I be awarded a permit. This attitude changed rapidly when he woke the next morning to find he was sleeping next to the bloody head of a chipmunk.

Satisfied that the whole barking mad incident was over, but feeling a twinge of guilt about the chipmunk, I wrote a hefty cheque to the S.P.C.A.