So Gangster

No time for tea this week!

I’m off on a work trip this morning (more about that in a future post) for a few days in New Jersey, which is just what you need when you’re trying to learn something new in a course. It breaks up all the WTFing and sobbing and head banging and such.

Meanwhile, my fair city, which has been tearing up the streets for a few years for water and sewer work, has started planting trees. Somerville used to be known as “Tree City” in the 1970s, until someone’s cousin (this is how one gets jobs in city government here) was appointed arborist and, legend has it, was paid by the diseased tree he cut down. He was also the one to determine which trees were diseased.

What could go wrong?

Now the city is planting some number of trees—I’ve heard 187 and 193 and other numbers, always odd, interestingly—and one place they want to plant one is in front of my front yard.

My front yard has thirty years worth of plants that require lots of sun.

My street also has many trees. So I wrote to the powers that be requesting they not plant a tree in front of my yard. They wrote back telling me how much they appreciated me writing to them, and also that they were going to do what they were going to do, and how they prided themselves on their listening.

The day the guys came to pour the concrete for the new sidewalk and ready the space for the future tree, I walked outside and talked to the crew.

“I don’t want a tree. I have thousands of dollars tied up in this yard.”

“You people want trees, and then when we go to plant them you don’t want them in front of your houses,” said the irritated foreman.

“Who said I wanted trees?” I asked. “I hate trees. And whales. And baby seals, and also I genuinely hate puppies. You can ask anyone. It’s that idiot Mayor of ours who says she’s doing things we want without asking us what we want. She’s a special kind of stupid.”

The crew looked uncomfortable.

“She’s my cousin,” said the foreman.

“That’s OK,” I said, “Every family has one. The problem is when there are a lot in the family.” I looked at him.

“Lady,” he said, “I gotta plant the tree.”

“Oh well,” I said, “Not all trees make it.” The guy in the backhoe put his hand over his mouth.

“What did you say?” the foreman asked.

“I said it’s not a problem. Not all trees make it. Shit happens to trees. Nature can be very cruel.”

He looked at me.

“Jesus,” he said, “that’s so gangster.”

“Can I get any of you guys coffee?” I asked. They all declined, and I walked back inside.

The next weekend the Things and I were having lunch with my father. I relayed the story of the trees, the cost and effort of the yard over the years, and how the city wouldn’t budge. I told them what I’d said to the foreman, about how not all trees make it. My father agreed, and muttered something about gasoline, or a spike.

“Jesus, mom,” said Thing 2, “that’s so gangster.”

If you think about it, I’m just doing my civic duty. Whitey Bulger hailed from Somerville, and it’s important to honor local culture.

The tree will likely be planted by the time I return from my trip.

It’s such a shame it didn’t make it.