Too Many Trees

I could see the writing on the wall as soon as I pulled into the driveway. It was pitch black outside with not so much as a landscaping light in sight. The driveway was long, narrow and curvy. Sitting in the only spot that I could have had even a chance at turning around was a giant 18-wheeler “game truck”. And then there were the trees.  Always the trees. There was no way me and my tank of a vehicle were going to get out of that driveway unscathed.
 

My GMC Yukon and I have experienced some trying times lately. Many of these challenges seem to involve my friend, Louise’s, driveway. Another long, narrow, tree-infested scenario. Try as I might, I simply can’t seem to get out of that driveway without hitting something. Thankfully, the kids and forest creatures know to stay out of my way. 
 

The trees are another story. Not so much fear, or flexibility, with the trees. Of course, there was that one day I was successful in avoiding the trees, bushes and shrubs, only to run into her neighbor’s recycling bin. Now that was a moral dilemma. Pick up a week’s worth of recyclable trash strewn across the driveway and road in a skirt and heels, or just drive on and pretend that I never felt the sickening thud or heard the subsequent crash of hundreds of pieces of tin hitting the pavement.
 

Twenty-five minutes and several odd looks from passersby later, I sat in my car liberally applying hand sanitizer and pondering the dietary habits of Louise’s neighbors. Apparently, they do nothing but sit around eating soup and drinking beer all day. Occasionally, they treat themselves to Spam. Interesting, the things you learn from picking up someone’s trash.
 

A few weeks ago I got into trouble without even hitting anything. I drove Natalie to her running club and happily sat in the car reading my book until it was time to go. But upon shifting to reverse and hitting the gas, I quickly realized that I wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime soon. The Yukon’s front tires had sunken down in the soft, wet dirt about 10 inches. To make matters worse, I had driven over an in-ground sprinkler (never even saw it) which was now hopelessly hooked behind my front bumper.
 

Every dad in the place rose to the challenge of extricating me and my vehicle from the mud. Lots of discussion and suggestions. A little muscle flexing. Some questions about my car that I should have probably known the answers to but embarrassingly, did not. Thankfully, no one asked the real questions that must have been on everyone’s mind. Like, why did she run over the sprinkler, and why did she choose to park this giant and heavy monstrosity on soft dirt in the first place? Or, perhaps most importantly, why is she even allowed to drive a vehicle this big? I’m glad no one asked that question, because that one has no answer.
 

The truth is, I should not be driving a vehicle this large. Probably no one should. Especially in a town with so many narrow roads, tiny parking spaces and such a ridiculous number of trees. 
 

In my dream world, I would have a little Mini Cooper or a Volkswagon Beetle or a Miata. I would go around my merry way, whipping into little parking spots and deftly maneuvering around the large obstacles that always seem to be in my path. The little car would be a bright and cheery color and I’d have some witty little vanity plate. We’d be so cute, my little car and me. 
 

If only I could figure out how to cram four kids and all their paraphernalia into my cute little car. Because until I figure that out, I’m stuck with the Yukon. The Yukon that seems to get more dented every day.
 

In any event, I have been able to successfully avoid recycling bins and sprinklers for going on 21 days now. Not so much luck with the trees.
 

The morning after my encounter with the game truck driveway, there was some impressive new damage to my back bumper. “This is terrible!” I exclaimed to my husband. “Someone must have hit my car in the mall parking lot!”
 

“Looks like a white car did it,” he responded, noting the white marks inside the dent. He bent down to further inspect the damage, while I continued to mumble on about rude people who hit other people’s cars in parking lots and then just drive away.
 

He finished his examination. “Uh, Michelle, do you remember feeling any big thuds recently?”
 

“Thuds? Whatever are you talking about?”
 

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s just that those white marks aren’t from white paint. That’s tree sap.”
 

Huh. Tree sap inside the new dent in my car. 
 

The thing is, despite the ranting and raving of all the liberal tree-huggers of the world, including my parents’ long-time neighbor who has made it his life-long mission to protect and preserve everything within a 2-mile radius of his house that so much as sprouts a leaf, there are just too many trees around here. There, I’ve said it. Too many trees. And if no one else is going to do anything about it, then my Yukon and I will.