We were minding our own business, eating a lunch of tuna salad sandwiches and enjoying the breeze on our almost finished patio. Suddenly, we heard a noise, like a cracking or a falling.
“I hope that wasn’t the beehive,” said I.
“More likely it was the tent,” said he.
“You’re both wrong,” said Meg, returning from a scouting mission. “It’s a tree.”
“At first, I thought it was a bush,” she said. “But I didn’t remember having a bush there.”
“Half of the tree came down.”
“And you can see the heartwood!” Penelope added.
“It’s rotten,” I said. “No wonder it fell.”
“There was a crack,” Jon added sagely, “and the water has been slowly seeping in.”
We’re all in shock, as you can see, but grateful that no one was playing nearby.
And that the chickens in their crate were on the other side.
It was a Bradford pear, enormous, and well known for instability.
In a place like ours, which receives so much interesting weather, it’s a wonder it has stood this long.
Its neighbor was once struck by lightening.