How a Tree Turned Me Into a Teenager

Hint: Never underestimate the power of a tool belt

One morning at the very end of April, the village woke up to snow.

The weather lady had alerted us the night before.

“Get out those parkas, folks. Mother Nature’s acting like a little beeyatch again.”

I’m paraphrasing, but after a bitter winter, you could almost hear a collective groan rise above the mansards and gables: Enough with the crap weather, mama.

I hauled out the jacket I’d sent off to hibernate in the back of my closet. No snow day for me.

The tree guys were coming.

You don’t mess with the tree guys here in upstate New York. The towering 100-year-old maple in my backyard needed attention. Cancel, and you might wait years to get them back.

As predicted, the wind blew eastward from the Catskills, pinging hail against windows, bouncing tree limbs, shearing the tulip-shaped buds from my beloved magnolia. A thin layer of snow frosted early hints of grass.

At 7 a.m., the tree guys backed their truck into the gravel driveway, easing it between my house and the next one over. Men in Carhartts and camo jumped down, flung open the truck’s back doors, and hustled a collection of arborist gear over to the tree.

The wind whistled. I fretted.

“You sure about this? In this weather?”

“Relax. This ain’t nothin’ ”, the boss said. Then he and his cell phone disappeared into the cab of the truck.

I stood at a safe distance while two men with big guts and hands in their pockets huddled with the long-haired tree climber, somewhat of a twig himself.

Let’s call him Todd.

Todd buckled himself into his harness, clipped on a rainbow of lanyards, carabiners, spikes, and scabbards, retied his boots, strapped his legs into protective chaps, and festooned himself in coils of inch-thick nylon rope. I figured the forester’s helmet and blue-mirrored wraparound safety glasses were the final, enrapturing touches. And then he grabbed the chainsaw.

I was old enough to be his mother (and then some), but donning his gear transformed young Toddy from a mere stripling into a full-grown man — all sinew, sharp cheekbones, steely resolve, and upper-body strength.

The thing about men in toolbelts (with steel-toe boots and chainsaws for extra je ne sais quoi) is the “can do-ness” of it. It’s primitive: Here, little lady, let me sharpen this arrowhead for you. It sounds retrogressive. It is retrogressive. Even men not in toolbelts are attracted to men in toolbelts.

In my case, it harkens back to adolescence, and the titillating sight of rock stars wielding the tools of their trade, specifically, electric guitars. Which, ironically, are sometimes referred to as axes.

Whatever the explanation, as the weather simmered down and Todd began his ascent, the teenager within me was released.

Todd hurled ropes over branches, hoisting himself upward, wrapping his entire body around tree limbs to shimmy upside down along their length to the next one. He swung himself across nothing but air to catch a branch, and another, legs stretched almost beyond their limit, fighting gravity until he appeared at the tree’s crown, eighty feet above us. Todd gave a thumbs up (not at me).

The fat guys hollered directives. The chainsaw whined. Huge limbs fell to the ground.

When my hero slid down the tree trunk to terra firma, I made my approach. I may or may not have batted my eyelashes like a 15-year-old when I complimented him on his masterful pruning skills.

“Thanks, ma’am,” he said.

There it was. The jolt of “ma’am.” I hate “ma’am.”

“Isn’t being that high up a tree really, really scary?”

My question just may have had something of the coquette about it. In any case, I couldn’t gauge his interest through his mirrored wraparound glasses.

“Nah,” he said and dropped the chainsaw.

Todd unclipped the lanyards and carabiners. He undid the harness, unbuckled his chaps, pulled off his hard hat. The toolbelt phenomenon did a slow fade as he removed his equipment, piece by piece. It was like a private bachelorette party where you’re urging the male stripper to put it all on, not take it all off.

Up close, I noticed his face was spotty. Not surprising for someone I realized was barely old enough to buy a legal six-pack.

Todd wiped his dripping nose on one sleeve, then the other.

And just like that the spell was broken.

“Thanks for your business, ma’am,” he said, extending his hand. I kept mine in my pocket.

“Why don’t I get you a tissue, young man. And please button up. Wouldn’t want you catching a cold in this crazy weather.”

I got him a tissue. I wrote a fat check. The tree guys packed up and left. The sun came out. It was April again.

My inner teenager may have been reawakened for a while, but my inner, outer, totally grown-ass woman was back in charge.

P.S. Todd did an excellent job on the tree.

Thanks a bunch for reading!