the size of their toys

When my uncle lived here, he was married to a woman whose maiden name was Holley. So he planted holly trees. I have always hated those trees. Despite ongoing lamentations that their hideous spiky leaves never decompose and cheerfully lacerate hands, knees, and feet and can puncture heavy denim clothing; and despite the fact that, in rain and in winter, the branches threatened the utility wires that ran to the house from the street; and despite the fact that the density of the growth obscured the view of the front yard (not a good thing in this less-than-good neighborhood), my mother's near-Druidical reverence for all things green meant that The Trees Stayed. But Mom's not in charge anymore. heh. heh. heh.

So I called the fabulous Owens Brothers, tree experts extraordinaire, and they came on Saturday with a crew and serious equipment, and Took Care of It.

8:25 a.m. Saturday. The pall of hated, spiky green.

8:30 a.m. The convoy of trucks, some the size of small buildings.

with cute names

8:40 a.m.  Down to business. Steve backs in the cherry-picker and makes quick work of the Most Hated One. Yes, that awful tree was as tall as the house.

Meanwhile, Dennis got the guys working on the side yard -- grossly deciduous and overgrown Rose of Sharon bushes and, what else, more holly trees. 

whee ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

9:10 (or so). Dennis pruned the dogwood tree. I do like the dogwood tree. I hope that now that it doesn't have to compete with the hulking holly for air, water, and light, that it will relax into its more natural, beautifully graceful form.

Steve (and Vermeer) ground out the stumps

10:00 a.m. They drove off, leaving behind light, air, and not the least wisp of debris. So there it is -- the house my grandfather started building 1931 and added to and added to as needed until he was done.

If she were alive to see this, my mother would kill me. heh. heh. heh. . .
Although, it looks a little bare . . . I will need to investigate full-sun planting, new territory, for sure.
Curious side note: back in the early 1960s, when they were young and in love and first married, Dennis and Steve's parents lived in the first-floor apartment of the house. Their Dad, Bobby Owens, was one of the original Owens Brothers and started the business with his brothers when they were barely out of their teens. (One brother, I think, may still have been in his teens.)

It's almost a shame the house itself isn't a writer . . . it has stories.