Storms reason to report back east
You know how whenever an earthquake rattles anywhere on the West Coast, one of your East Coast relatives (in my case, Brothers X and XX) text to “make sure that you’re OK”? I always feel a little guilty when I reply, “Well, the Mauna Loa volcano did erupt, but really we haven’t had even one small tsunami here.”
When the super death rain vortex attacked California these past few weeks, the texts started pouring in. Nearly 20 inches of rain in 20 days is a lot of rain. So, I was secretly pleased when we lost power for a night, as it gave me something to report to points back east, but alas, the lights were back on in an hour.
Did you know that there are 670,000 trees in San Francisco, give or take a sapling or two? Of those, according to Chronicle data whiz Nami Sumida, 129,000 grow along the city’s sidewalks and roadways. And at least five of them are thanks to us.
When we first moved to the Bedlam Blue Bungalow back in 1999, my neighbor Maureen walked around with us signing people up for the Friends of the Urban Forest. At the time, our neighborhood was among the least treed in all of Frank, and we were determined to get our fair shade.
The most common San Francisco species is the sycamore, followed by the New Zealand Christmas, the swamp myrtle and the Victorian box.
Most of our neighbors went for swamp myrtle, a.k.a. water gum. It’s relatively small and hard to kill.
My father, Hap, was still alive at the time, and he asked us to plant olive trees.
Hap had been a soldier during World War II, in Patton’s Third Armored Division, the tank corps. Hap said, “The olive branch has been a symbol of peace for hundreds of years. Do you know why? Back in ancient days, when the Greek cities went to war, the winner generally burned down the loser’s orchards. They knew that if you planted new ones, it would take 20 years to grow new fruit, or drupe. If you had mature olive trees, you’d had 20 years of peace. I’d like to think that the West Coast grandchildren I will never have would grow up in the shade of those trees.”
He was wrong. Three years later he had West Coast grandchildren, but we did indeed plant olives. They have lived for more than two decades, and indeed, Zane and Aidan have grown up in their shade. I cannot tell you how many of our dogs have peed on them.
Maureen chose differently. For a spot between our homes, she went for a tall one, the yellow acacia. It grew to more than 40 feet high, and her daughter, Maya, grew up in its shadow, moving away this year to study abroad in Rome. And we all lived happily ever after.
That is, until the torrential bomb cyclone. On Sunday night, Jan. 15, the boys were home. We ate chicken potpie, then retired to the living room. The sound of the rain was better than the sound of the television, so we read books and listened to the last of the nine atmospheric rivers pour through our town.
Monday morning, one of Zane’s friends came by early. He rang the bell and said, “Sorry about your tree.” And there, leaning against the Bedlam Blue Bungalow, was Maureen’s acacia.
It had missed our roof by 3 inches.
Brian texted his East Coast brother: “Our tree committed suicide. But let me be clear: this has been an unprecedented storm. People have died, animals lost. But not us. We’re lucky. We have a dead car, and a tree leaning against the house.
Our sons are safe. Our dogs are safe. We are safe. Life could be so much worse. I am beyond grateful.”
I got to text pictures to all my relatives back east showing how we had survived the cosmic killer monsoon.
You can say what you want about the government in the City That Knows How, but six hours after we called 311, two men came with a chain saw, and within an hour, every single leaf was gone. For the first time since that tree was planted nearly 20 years ago, we had a view outside our bedroom window. Fortunately, our neighbor’s house blocks the sight of the Salesforce Tower, but it felt like there was a little more daylight on our bungalow, and after all these storms, it felt good.
One particular tree no longer grows in the Outer, Outer, Outer, Outer Excelsior. But odds are we will plant another. Given the drama of the acacia, I’ll insist on another olive. And maybe, just maybe, the grandchildren we will never have will grow up in its shade.
For the first time since that tree was planted nearly 20 years ago, we had a view outside our bedroom window.