How to Save a Tree

I’m a tree hugger. Always have been. And when I moved to the Nations in 2001, there were a lot of trees to get my arms around. But nowadays, that’s not the case. Old-growth trees are few and far between thanks to the multitude of developers who automatically give every parcel they buy a Brazilian to maximize profits.

In the face of this aggressive tree-clearing, something Nashville has no laws against, I’m no longer a simple Tree Hugger. No! I have become a Tree Saver, which I know sounds like a powerful position, but let me tell you; it’s anything but. There’s no squadron of tree-saving Ninjas at my side. And definitely no Department of Tree Police. But I dream about starting one with uniforms and everything. Stylin’ in my official hat, Bermuda shorts, and short-sleeved, button-down shirt, I’d look just like the human equivalent of Smokey the Bear or a Boy Scout who’s going through menopause.

Despite the fact I’m not a Tree Policewoman, her doppelganger slips out on occasion, and honestly, there’s no holding her back. This happened a few years ago when I ran into a neighbor I hardly knew whose husband had recently died. She began to tell me about her dream of moving to the beach and selling the stately Victorian she’d lived in for decades.

Panic gripped me like an overzealous third cousin at a family reunion. If she sold to a developer, like so many neighbors had, they’d bulldoze her house and put two in its place! The lot boasted nine mature trees that could be lost, which horrified me. But even more horrifying was the thought of the two majestic Maples, which bookended the property, biting the dust. I loved those trees. Just a glimpse of their tall, leafy expanse could make my day! They looked like they were reaching for the sky, fingers outstretched, happy to be hanging in the sun or the wind or the rain. Just happy to be. I had to save them!

Before I could stop myself, I began offering unsolicited advice to this woman, who was practically a stranger, about what she should do with her house. “Wouldn’t it be great to find a nice, Millennial couple who’s all about fixer-uppers and Urban reforestation?” I pressed, like a salesman at a time-share breakfast. “I could help you find a buyer. I’d hate for a developer to get their hands on your house! They’d probably take down those trees.” I pointed to said trees mournfully. She looked at the trees and back at me and shrugged. I took this as a non-verbal, “Yes! I’d love your help!”

The next few weeks, I networked my ass off trying to find a buyer for this architectural treasure. But after a routine inspection determined that the old girl had more problems than a Rabbi at a hog calling contest, a developer from “Wreck Your Homes and Gardens, LLC” got their hands on This Old House. I was apoplectic. Night after night, I tossed and turned, unable to sleep, the IMAX screen in my brain playing a relentless loop of those innocent Maples, being cut down in their prime; chainsaws ripping, limbs falling! It was like watching a tree snuff film.

I called other tree huggers to unleash my outrage, but was met with pragmatism. “Nashville has no laws to protect mature trees,” they reminded me. “But they’ll have to replace them with 2” caliper saplings!” they enthused.

“That would be like putting a drink umbrella on your deck and hoping for shade,” I pointed out.

I continued to obsess about the trees, and on walks with my dog, I’d stop and talk to them. You know, the way a woman who lives alone with 31 cats would do? But I sensed they could understand me; that they knew I was trying to save them from becoming a VARIDESK or a box of No. 2 pencils. And then, one morning, mid-conversation, I had an epiphany! One of the trees stood just feet from the alley. And if it was even partly rooted on city property, it would be considered a boundary tree and couldn’t be taken down!

Grabbing my phone, I dialed my friend in the Storm Water department, who’s a tree nut like me. Intrigued, she promised to investigate. But that would take time, she said. And time was something I didn’t have. So, I started calling other city officials.

The Planning Department didn’t know what to tell me, except it wasn’t their department. Codes did not call for a Code Blue. And the Urban Forester, who’s supposed to be on the tree’s side, was no help at all! He said the tree on the alley wasn’t a boundary tree, something he had no way of knowing since he’d never seen it, and this sent me running back to my Storm Water sister, who said the Urban Forester was probably wrong. This almost calmed me down. But only one thing was certain: the clock was ticking.

With every passing day, I became more and more despondent. And maybe it was my dark frame of mind or the fact that I was totally sleep deprived, but when epiphany number two broke with the dawn one morning, I was sure I’d found my answer: I’d chain myself to the Maple in front of the house, in protest, and call every media outlet in the city to come down and film me. They wouldn’t dare take the tree down then!

Of course, I’d have to have help. One can hardly chain oneself to a tree. Plus, I’d need someone to post bail if I was arrested or cover me with a tarp if it rained. I’d bring water and power bars, and naturally, I’d have to wear Depends. And if I were there long enough, I might even need Astronaut diapers. Sure, I’d make a spectacle of myself, but it was for a good cause! And in that moment it sounded like a viable plan.

I shared my idea with tree huggers and random friends just to try it on for size. And although most found it charming and funny others were not amused, especially the real estate agent representing the developer. Oh yes. I called him too.

Me, sounding rational and calm: Do you know what the developer’s planning to do with the mature trees on the property?

Him: I have no idea.

Me, sounding a little less rational and calm: Would you put me in touch with them?

Him: No. I will not.

Me, starting to lose my shit: Do you know how many trees have been taken down in this neighborhood?

Him: I have no idea.

Me, losing my shit in an octave so high it’s just a decibel below the sound only dogs can hear: Hundreds! And I can’t let these trees be next! If they try to take them down,were I’ll chain myself to the Maple in front of the house and call every media outlet in the city to come and film me!

Him: Crickets

Now, if you’re wondering if I knew I sounded a little crazy right then, I can absolutely assure you I did. As a matter of fact, I regretted sharing this information the moment I shared it. And from his abject silence, I knew this guy was absolutely picturing me as the cover girl of Nutcase Weekly. I took a breath.

Me, trying to sound remorseful: Sorry, I don’t mean to sound so emotional, but I care about those trees.

Him: You sound pretty emotional.

Me, pretending to ignore his condescending tone: Will you just take my name and number? Ask them to call me?

Him: OK.

I gave him my information, something else I regretted sharing the moment I shared it because I knew he was taking it both to appease me, and as a precautionary measure, should I decide to go postal. That could have gone better, I shook my head. As I scoured Nashville.gov for the developer’s name. I pictured myself showing up unannounced at their office in my Tree Police regalia, but instantly thought better of it. Getting an unexpected phone call freaks people out, so imagine how an angry stranger showing up on your doorstep would go over! Besides, I thought, why get arrested for trespassing when you can get arrested for chaining yourself to a tree?

Maybe a threatening yet heartfelt letter is better, I thought. But it needs to look like it came from a real organization. I smiled as I created the letterhead for The Nations Tree Conservation Corps. I was just putting the finishing touches on my masterpiece when I was jarred by an unexpected phone call. (See what I mean?) It was my pal from Storm Water with good news: the Maple on the alley was a boundary tree, and she’d be meeting with the builder the next morning to discuss the future of both trees. Unfortunately, I wasn’t invited. I pretended I was OK with that.

But I might have been sitting in my car early the next morning, and I might have watched a truck pull up to the house, which could have been the builder. And I might have eased on down the block, sidled up to the truck where a woman sat behind the wheel, casually lowered the passenger side window, and waved.

Me: Hi. Are you associated with this property?

Her: Yes. I’m the builder.

Me: Great! I live two doors down,, and I was wondering… are you gonna cut down those big, beautiful Maples?

Her: We try not to take down mature trees.

Trading my first impulse to leap through the window and kiss her hard on the mouth for a less emotional response, I smiled, thanked her, and drove off down the block. But I have to tell you, everyone at the NTCC was really excited, and we had to pull over so we could scream and pound the steering wheel for a minute. An hour later, when my Storm Water friend called to share the good news, I let her think she’d been the first one to know; after all, she was the one who’d ridden to the rescue.

This story has a happy ending, but I’m sorry to say there are way too many stories that don’t. Luckily, there are real organizations and scores of Nashvillians dedicated to saving what’s left of our tree canopy, and I’m super grateful to be counted among their ranks. But I’d lay odds that I’m the only one who’s threatened to chain herself to a tree armed with little more than a few snacks, a crazy smile on her face, and a big, ol’ box of Depends.