Once brought me banana bread after learning I had pneumonia.
They had a golden retriever named Murphy who escaped their yard twice.
Both times I walked him home.
We waved on the shared access road.
Sometimes talked about snow.
Lake levels.
County taxes.
Nothing suggested future litigation.
The first clue came approximately two years after they moved in.
Gary stopped me beside the road one evening.
“Those maples of yours really fill in during summer.”
He said.
“They do.”
“You ever think about thinning them?”
“Not particularly.”
He looked through the branches toward the lake.
“They block a lot of western light from our deck.”
I shrugged.
“They’ve been blocking western light for about sixty years.”
He laughed.
I thought that was the end of it.
Several months later, Sandra mentioned the same thing while we were both getting mail.
“We would have such an incredible sunset view if that tree line were lighter.”
She said.
I answered:
“It is a good tree line.”
She smiled.
“You're attached to them?”
“Yes.”
That should have clarified things.
Then came the text message.
October.
Two months before winter set in.
Gary wrote:
Hey Daniel. At some point I'd like to discuss vegetation along our shared boundary. Nothing urgent. Some trees/branches affect our light and view. Let me know when you have time.
I was in the middle of a client implementation.
Working twelve-hour days.
I replied:
Busy the next few weeks. Let's talk in spring when weather improves.
He reacted with a thumbs-up.
No follow-up.
No dispute.
No request to enter.
No proposed trimming.
Nothing.
That autumn happened to be one of the best color seasons in years.
Cold nights.
Bright days.
The maples changed almost all at once.
On the second Saturday in October, I took my coffee outside just after sunrise.
The eastern trees were lit from behind.
Red.
Orange.
Yellow.
I took six photographs with my phone.
One wide shot from the porch.
Two from the yard.
One near the fence.
A close photograph of the biggest maple.
Another showing the birches against the Warner house in the background.
I did not take them for documentation.
I took them because they looked beautiful.
Five months later, those photographs became some of the clearest before-images in my case.
Winter came.
Snow.
Ice.
The lake froze.
I barely saw the Warners except from a distance.
Then, late March, after several days of thawing temperatures, I went to inspect the fence.
I usually walked the property after winter.
Snow load breaks branches.
Deer loosen wire.
Freeze-thaw shifts posts.
The eastern fence was old.
Four strands of barbed wire.
Mostly left from Uncle Ray’s days.
I planned to replace it eventually but had never needed to.
I carried pliers, gloves, and a small coil of repair wire.
I came around the back side of the garage.
Walked downhill.
Then stopped.
The first thing I noticed was space.
Too much of it.
For eleven years, my eye had been trained to see trunks along that boundary.
Vertical lines.
Now there was open sky.
The lake was visible between my yard and the Warner deck in a way it had never been.
I stood motionless.
Then I saw the stumps.
One.
Two.
Three.
I began counting.
By the time I reached eleven, I knew exactly what had happened.
Every mature tree in the central section was gone.
Fresh chainsaw cuts.
Pale wood.
Some damp with sap.
Sawdust still caught in wet grass.
The smallest stump perhaps sixteen inches across.
The largest close to thirty.
The logs were gone.
Most branch debris had been removed.
A rough pile remained near the eastern fence.
I remember touching one maple stump.
Not for evidence.
Not yet.
Just instinct.
The surface was smooth.
Cold.
Still smelled sweet.
Then I looked toward the Warner house.