George of the Jungle I’m not. I don’t aim for trees, they aim for me.
A tree limb – perhaps 15 inches or 38 centimetres at its widest girth, threw itself at me during the late hours of Wednesday last. Oblivious in my snowblowing reverie, it caught my attention only when a cacophonous racket left me wondering what I’d scooped and spit at the house siding.
Seeing nothing battering the home, I spun around in time to catch the limb as it crushed a fence and settled for the night across our drive, claiming space I’d occupied not a minute earlier. Its blockage rendered moot my clearing of snow, the late effort meant as a means of avoiding an early similar task on Thanksgiving morning.
A late autumn storm – known in New England by the generic, colloquial nor’easter, dumped nine inches of heavy wet snow on a region ready to dart every which way Thursday morning. It took out power to 200,000 plus people, the fourth largest outage in state history. Some remain without power tonight.
The blastwave, sobering reality of the downed limb struck in seconds. a similar-sized sibling of the celery stalk-like tree loomed over me. With the added weight upon it, retreat indoors seemed the better choice.
We assumed the blocked drive ended the plan to spend the holiday at my nephew’s new lakeside camp, and it did. However, he cleared the limb in the morning, and we spent a lovely day at my sister’s home.
I’ll refrain from mocking the tree; I prefer to have karma on my side.