Why Trees Hate Me.

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I have a confession to make. Due to my predilection for printed media, I, and my ilk, are responsible for the annihilation of countless trees.

I’m not a lumberjack, (although that would be OK according to Monty Python) mostly because no one with even a passing familiarity with me would let me loose with a large electric, gnawing, potential weapon, not if they liked me.

Rather than dwell on the subject of my war wounds however, let’s return to the forest; it’s boundaries teaming with life and energy, the musical whistle of the wind as it sets leaves dancing, the dappled sunlight and sparkling rain; I’ve probably destroyed at least a medium-sized state full, all because I like paper.

Newspapers, magazines, notebooks, calendars, shopping lists, Christmas cards, trees, trees and more trees. And I love trees. Some of my best friends are trees, which makes sharing a movie impossible, but still, I don’t hold that against them. Every relationship has it’s problems.

I, with acknowledged hypocrisy, resent when large trucks equipped with cherry pickers and burly men, rumble into my neighborhood to destroy a little bit of shade. Every spring, I shake my fist at those who lop off huge boughs of trees which were most likely planted before the burly men were burly sparks in their father’s eyes.

If the trimming were accomplished with some finesse, I suppose I could rationally credit the clipping with my ability to receive electricity. But these bough bullies seem to “trim” trees like children cut their own hair, with an eye toward transforming the majestic giants into a laughing stock even to the lowly shrubs.

Somewhere inside my rational self, and I do have one, I know the tree professionals are most likely perfectly fine people who are providing a needed service dictated to them by city officials who seem to have more interest in keeping Elgin from going dark than maintaining a leafy covered lane. Still, what’s a little power loss among friends? It’s not as if they go out of their way to fling themselves over the wires attached to our homes, except when they do. But these are rogue trees! Must all of them suffer?

Anyway, what were we talking about? Paper. I love it.

Reading newspapers online will never satisfy me like unfolding the paper every morning and wresting it into submission while sipping a steaming beverage. Just FYI, it’s best to put the tea safely on a level and sturdy surface before turning to page three to find out which politician is going to jail this week, learn from my experience.

Not only do I read newspapers, but I purchase and read books with absolutely no electrical gadgetry involved unless you count Amazon.com, which I don’t for the sake of my point here.

And where would popular music be without paper? If you answered; easier to purchase and listen to, and added, what has paper got to do with music anyway, I’d have an answer: Buzz off, kid. Nobody likes a smart alleck. Plus your answer is, if not wrong, misguided.

Picture Elvis Presley singing the old favorite, This Mail is Undeliverable and Has Been Returned

rather than the iconic, Return to Sender. Doesn’t pack the same punch, does it? Or the Marvelettes or the Beatles singing, Please Mr. Server rather than Please Mr Postman. Music may never have recovered.

Probably the most tree-centric of my ghastly crimes comes as a result of my love of magazines. l adore the slick, scented pages of fashion magazines, especially when the seasons change and it takes a small pickup truck to deliver the holy grail of advertising and low self-esteem. I subscribe to at least a dozen magazines with various subject matter a month which contributes to my prowess at Trivial Pursuit as well as my postal carriers back problems.

Once I’ve left the used periodicals at my allergist’s office, (you’re welcome readers of last year’s Ragwood Weekly) I buy more print media. Wouldn’t you think I’d be receiving dividends from the publishers especially with the state of the medium? In fact, even when my writing appears within the pages, they seem reluctant to return more than a small percentage of what I’ve invested.

The struggle I live with has yet to drive me from the written page which may bring many of you to the obvious question; why aren’t there more magazines? No, I’m just deflecting. The question would be, why am I writing for an on-line publication for which I have a plausible and concise explanation, which I will share after I get through my current stack of reading material.

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