Appalachian American Ennui: April 2022

When I bought this place, which was almost a century old back in 1994, an ancient old barn, beyond repair, stood just to the right of this now proud adult dogwood. Someone had laid structural three-hole bricks all over the surface of this little portion of the earth. Problem was, they were laid flat, so many kinds of aggressive flora had seeded and then exploited the holes and began their ascent toward the sky. I was in the process of cutting the brush down so the bricks could be removed easier when I noticed a little sapling that had taken root as desribed. It was about as big around as a first grade pencil. I almost inadvertently cut it down. So glad I was that I noticed it that I put a red ribbon around it. A litte black-haired girl, named Jessica Monroe, who lived just up the street came down to watch this mysterious new neighbor swearing and sweating it out and offered to help. I hired her on the spot. Her job was to pry the bricks up, which numbered several scores, and then some. She worked her little ass off and got them all up and stacked them for me. I paid her well. Years later she would inexplicably drive a car into a group of larger trees and get incinerated down the road in Knox county. This tree reminds me of her. There are those who would recommend that I cut it down on account of the negative history. I mustn't listen to them, even if one of them is me, because not all of its history is negative. Beauty alone might justify its preservation, despite the fact that it reminds me of a horror that I'd just a soon set free.