I would never make a good gardener, let alone farmer. Deciding on matters of life and death for plants and animals - naw, that would take some getting used to for a semi-sentimental fool like moi.
But since life has bestowed me a small cottage with a few surrounding square meters of what used to be a garden, I'd have to assume some minimalistic attitude of responsibility towards this Land of Mine. And since said cottage has been blessed with more trees than what's good for it (or its neighbours) I have established sort of a yearly tradition of inviting a team of arborists to "scope the problem".
They're real pro's, I'm mighty impressed. And scope they do, indeed. Three visits in as many years have reduced seven fairly proud trees into:
a) one pile of twigs being burnt in November
b) one pile of firewood being donated to neighbours
c) one tree stump
Well, maybe not that proud... This year's trio did in fact turn out to be marked by tree rot.
Still, I can't quite get used to Deciding. A pear tree finds a place to live, grows, delivers fruits and leaves for well over a century... and one sunny morning it gets chopped up in no time in a merry chainsaw massacre. Disintegrated into those three categories of remnants.
- Wham, bam, kindly pay at the counter!
I would never make a good gardener. In the words of good old Ferdinand the Bull:
- I think I'll just sit here and smell the flowers.