Bear Repair

By the time we moved into our house last year, the trees, denuded by fall, offered a blank canvas on which this treehugger projected all sorts of leafy fantasies.

Neck-deep in my 102-degree hot tub perch, I spent a good by of daydreaming imagining what they'd look like when the world thawed, but nothing prepared me for the violet, early-May explosion that burst from the sorry, thin little twigs of the crab apple tree just next to our pond.

Though the blossoms lasted only a few days, in part because of a surprise late snow, they captured a little part of me.

Which is why I totally lost it when I went out to open the chicken coop one morning a few weeks ago and discovered that our resident bear had taken up residence in our little tree, crushing the majority of its branches under his weight; in his pre-hibernation quest for food, he'd discovered the honey pot of crab apples.

Like the death of Mr. V's pet trout, killed on our bridge by an overly-excited crew of 10-year-old boys, this hit was deeply personal and mourned silently for days.

I consulted experts and, though I knew the chances of recovery were slim, spent hours tending to the tree, propping up its branches and bolting them in place with the help of my compassionate honey.

Then, I pulled off every single remaining crab apple, casting them to ground.

They were all gone the following morning, every last one.