“Let me help you!”

He’d come to look at my trees. And tell me if I need to take on a fifth job.

As we tromped through my unmowed, poison ivy-filled backyard to look at my trees, and potential impending poverty, Tree Dude glanced down at my flip flops.

“Do me a favor? Wipe your feet off with rubbing alcohol when you go back inside?”

Fair request since I’d just told him I’m fairly allergic to poison ivy. But see, if I get the poison, doc will give me the magic stuff to get rid of it. Two weeks of steroid-induced productivity? Yes, please.

Clearly unconvinced by my “Sure,” Tree Dude pulled out his knife and began hacking away at the poison ivy. And Virginia Creeper. And then started moving around the perimeter cutting into several other plants that he named, but I’m me so I didn’t retain that information, explaining which ones were invasive.

All of them. All of them are invasive.

Including the giant tree that grew, overnight, up through my power lines and onto my roof.

He told me her name, too. Again, we’ve all met me.

After some discussion about a vinegar mix to kill off the poison ivy covering her and the rest of my yard (I’ll consider it, but for real, steroids…), we agreed that she has to be euthanized. Relocation isn’t a service they offer.

I get very judgy about people cutting down perfectly healthy trees. And homegirl is hella healthy. But I can’t actually afford to replace my roof or the electric box thingy giving me power when this tree decides to say fuck this house, without taking on a fifth and sixth job.

And really, she’s covered in poison ivy. With no access to steroids. How happy can she be?

“Can we open this gate?”

I mean, I’ve never been able to. It’s shifted some over the years, so it doesn’t really open anymore.

And, being a man, he lowered his shoulder to show me that it could, in fact, open.

Fine. I mean, I’ve never really tried that hard to open that gate. There’s a whole nother gate on the other side. But I could have. Just…so we’re clear…

He determined that they could get the big equipment through there, as he was cutting all of the poison ivy down from the gate.

For real, the yardwork he was doing for me alone was gonna be worth whatever he quoted me for these trees.

Then we turned our attention to my big girl. My favorite tree.

I love this tree.

Tree dude walked around her, showing me all of her unhealed wounds. Her signs of white rot. The spots where the fucking carpenter ants have begun to make their way into her. (He did all this while cutting through the poison ivy. And eyeing my exposed feet.) (Not…in a creepy only fans way. Just mostly like he wanted to douse me in rubbing alcohol.) (Again, also not in a creepy…nevermind. I’m just saying, this wasn’t a chiropractor telling me to take my clothes off or barefoot homeless dude providing me a massage type of situation.)

“Have you ever seen any fungus growing around here?”

No.

At which point he immediately put his hand through another batch of poison ivy to pull off a hunk of white rot to show me.

This was the point I began overexplaining myself and apologizing for who I am as a person. Which he assured me was unnecessary.

Anyway, we did the close up examination.

Then we walked to the end of the yard to get an overall view. I tried to walk him along the fenceline. Where more invasive plants are. Since he seemed to be on a pretty good roll about managing my yardwork. But he was pretty focused on the tree. And gauging her full size. And her potential to take out my entire house.

So, we’re standing there. At the bottom of my yard. Staring up at this big, beautiful tree. (Ugh. Why do those adverbs feel icky next to each other now…) And he starts waxing poetic about how she’s been through some stuff. She has some trauma scars. She’s carrying a lot of extra weight from that trauma. And she loves the sunshine. In the forest, she’d be the tallest tree, so she could get to the sun. But in my wide open (save for the poison ivy and weed infestation), she can stay short and wide.

Y’all. This tree is my soul tree.

Then he started talking about how we can help her. Remove some of that extra weight off her shoulders so she can properly heal. Relieve some of her stress and let her thrive and enjoy the sunshine.

When I say I almost broke all the way down…

So, to avoid that little awkward moment, I reverted to humor. Self-deprecating humor. Because that never makes things awkward for strangers.

I’m honestly not entirely sure what random things I even said to this man. But it was apparently enough. Because when we were done assessing my soul tree, he said, “Ok. Now. Let’s talk about you.”

He assured me that the therapy he was providing did not come with an extra charge. But as we were walking out of the backyard, he asked if he should close the whole nother gate. And of course I said, oh no. That’s fine. I can get that later. It’s a little hard to close.

Which is the point at which he yelled, “Let me help you!”

Anyway, I got my estimate that may not require a fifth job. Maybe just some extra projects on my fourth one. And I got some free therapy to go with it.

And he said I was his favorite appointment of the week. And that I won the best person ever contest. (Or that may have been me that said that last part. I may have made some assumptions there. But they feel safe.)

And I get to keep my soul tree. And probably my roof and entire house, too. So, that should help with some of that stress weight that’s keeping me short and wide.