This Fish Needs A Bicycle

killing the magnolia

I spent the summer of my 19th year house-sitting for my best friend’s family. Ordinarily, Texans do not “summer” away from home, but that year, the family decided to pick up and stay with relatives in a more mild climate and leave their 4-story Victorian and extensive grounds under my care. What they were thinking, who can say.

I was thrilled.

In exchange for a six week stay in the party house of teenage dreams, I was expected to kept the yards watered, clean the pool and make sure the fully-stocked fridge was emptied of fresh produce.

It was the summer of ninety-something consecutive days without rain. It was hot. And even though I was less than enthusiastic about roaming the yards moving sprinklers, slapping fire ants off my bare ankles, I was diligent. And while most of the homes in the historic neighborhood were wilting, except for a few brown spots in the lawn, my yard was thriving.

Then Toby, with whom I’d entertained flirtations for the last couple years of high school, began to take it upon himself to keep me company on those hot, sticky nights. We spent hours on the trampoline, the sprinkler on underneath, soaking our clothes. We cleaned the pool with regularity, the dark and a high, honeysuckle-lined fence providing ample camouflage for late evening skinny-dipping. We emptied the fridge -- fresh cilantro in our pico de gallo and strawberry shortcake -- while reclining on white wicker furniture on the wrap-around porch.

Needless to say, he was a bit of a distraction.

And one night, very near the end of my stay, we made the rounds in the yard, checking soak hoses and sprinklers when Toby and I discovered, that I had left one running. For more than a few weeks. The Magnolia tree in the corner of the yard, for which the entire street was named, was standing in a swamp, its roots exposed and rotting. We removed the hose and crossed our fingers. Sure enough, the next few days of hundred-degree heat dried up the swamp and the homeowners were none the wiser. But by the end of the summer, the century old tree had toppled.

I made a full confession, contrite and apologetic, and was freely forgiven – they’d been wanting rid of it for ages. Even so, I still feel pretty damn guilty for my foray into accidental herbicide.

But last night as I was sitting in my muggy apartment, taking a wee trip down memory lane, I had to admit that killing the Magnolia was a small price to pay for some pretty hot summer memories.

Posted by This Fish at May 24, 2004 10:15 AM