One of the blessings of living in the Intermountain West is the experience of living through the changing of the seasons. In my case, “living through” has different connotations, depending on which season is arriving and which season is leaving. In the case of fall crashing into winter, it may mean simply hanging on and surviving. As winter crawls into spring, or spring bounds into summer, things green up, and the daylight hours seem to graciously hang around until well after dark, and my mood tends to brighten like a mid-June sunrise.
Of course, summertime is not all sunshine and lush, green, stirrup-high grass. There are a few things that tend to dampen my enthusiasm. For instance, no matter how green the grass may be, my cows want to be somewhere other than where I want them to be. Even my good fences are inadequate when bovine wanderlust sets in. Then there’s the guilt that tends to nag at me every second I’m indoors, constantly tapping me on the shoulder and whispering in my ear to remind me that there’s a long list of unfinished chores that could be tended to as long as there’s a hint of daylight outside. And then there are the cottonwood trees.
Along the road in front of my house stands a row of cottonwood trees. They stand as friendly sentinels, guarding the privacy of my humble abode and shading the east side of the house from the morning sun. They allow my trashy side to remain partially hidden when I let the lawn mowing chores remain undone for an extra three or four days, and they offer a kind of stately ambience to my otherwise mostly unstately estate.
But as is the case with any good friend, my cottonwood trees have their flaws, which I willfully accept, not without much complaint, however. In those aforementioned times when I neglect to mow the lawn for several days, the trees interpret my sloth as a signal to reinforce their ranks, as small shoots spring up across the entire lawn, and my yard is transformed into a miniature deciduous forest. At those times, it almost seems like I’ll need to premow the lawn with a chainsaw. I’ve tried several remedies, including 2,4-D and cussing, each with the same effect. The tiny trees always return.
My cottonwood trees also offer another byproduct, which, as is suggested by the very name of the trees, may not be a byproduct at all. It may be that it’s simply the primary product. That product is, of course, the cotton that slowly drifts and meanders from the treetops on a fairly regular basis all through the late spring and summer. Sometimes, it layers the yard with an inch or two of soft, fluffy, white summertime snow. I’m not usually hampered by allergies, so for the most part, the cotton from the trees is little more than a slight nuisance to me. Like dealing with the little army of cottonwood shoots that regularly invade the lawn, however, I’ve discovered that the devil is in the details.
There’s a specific spot in front of my house where I prefer to park my pickup. By nature, I’m not the most detail-oriented person on the planet, but there are a few things, like straight, even saddle blankets; the way a horse’s mane lays, and where I park my truck in the shade of the trees at the house, that I’m almost obsessive about. There’s also another vehicle-related compulsion that I can’t seem to avoid. If the weather is warm, I can hardly stand to get out of the cab without cracking the windows just a bit – not more than an inch. I really don’t know if it helps keep the interior any cooler at all, but I do it anyway. It’s a habit I can’t kill.
Not long ago, as the trees were in the midst of one of their shedding sprees, I hopped in the pickup early one morning to make a swing around the block to make sure the cows were not out adventuring in search of greener pastures. As I sat in the driver’s seat and swung the door shut, a cloud of tree cotton erupted around me like a miniature St. Helens. I sputtered the cotton out of my mouth and cleared my eyes to find my cab covered in an inch-thick layer of the stuff. Even though there was scarcely a 1/2-inch gap in the front windows, the drifting cotton from the trees had managed to infiltrate the cab to an impressive degree.
I managed to get rid of most of the tree debris by simply driving down the road with the windows down, but it would take considerable effort with a vacuum cleaner to adequately complete the cleanup. As I fought with my fluffy nemesis, I couldn’t help but notice the little life parallels of the experience. For one, this wasn’t the first time I’d waged the very same unnecessary battle. You’d think I’d learn from the first dozen times. Beyond that, though, it reminded me of how easy it is for unwanted garbage and debris to seep into our lives. You only have to leave your window down just a crack or let your guard down for just a minute or an hour or two, and without your even noticing, you become engulfed in the stuff – whatever it may be. It’s not that things can’t be cleaned up and mistakes can’t be rectified, but it makes much more sense to keep it out in the first place.
