It’s raining, a hard rain turning the freeway into a tunnel of tire spray, windshield wipers laboring to keep up, and we are heading for the farm. The first time in several weeks after our Thanksgiving trip to Pasadena, and I am wondering if I will still be enchanted.

Now, at my desk, I look up the source of that word, “enchanted.” Comes from French and Latin, from the word “cantare” or to sing. This enchantment business appears often enough in fairy tales, usually featuring an ugly frog and a princess. It’s generally the frog who is enchanted, but in my own little tale, I am, of course the princess, so the thing is backwards. Will my lovely Hundred Acre Wood turn out to be a muddy toad, or will I?

You can see that I have lots of time on the road to Corvallis, in the rain, to worry. We were hurrying to the first of three appointments that morning, but the weather had slowed traffic and therefore, Larry was worrying, too.

The first was to meet with Tyrone Simmons, a builder, with the purpose of deciding if we would like to work with him, and he with us. He had come recommended through an association of Rod’s, and Larry had interviewed his references, so we were pretty sure that we’d like him. But did he, based in Salem, want to build in Corvallis? The meeting seems to have been successful, and he’ll be drawing up a bid for the project. He has a quality of stillness, and experience, and in addition, a wry sense of humor that promises to make our collaboration fun as well as rewarding. So far, so good.

Next was Tony, the Fence Guy. We want, at the moment, to build a connecting piece between Llewellyn and the gate, to prevent recreational activities further up the property, but eventually to fence the entire length of the driveway. Or “lane,” as friend Vik would have it. I like to watch the process as one of our “guys” learns what we think we want, then tries to show us how the world really works. If we want the fence to be far enough from the driveway, excuse me, lane, so that it doesn’t have to swerve around the fire-marshall mandated turnouts, do we realize that we’d have long swaths that would have to be mowed between fence and lane? Um, no. Hadn’t thought about that.

Tony is seriously cute. I know, that’s a ridiculous word, and it’s not that he’s handsome, though he is. He’s wiry and Italian-looking all right, but his eyes are always laughing, as if the world and these sweet old folks in it are a source of absolute joy. Well, we always like to provide amusement where we can. He’ll send us photos of the types of fence that would work, and a sense of the cost. Which Larry would be the first to tell you, he will find too much.

I want to take a minute here, before I get to the bad news, to tell you something. A bit ago I reconnected with a friend from the old days. It’s been interesting to watch how our lives play out, but a comment of his in response to my princess-on-the-farm adventure caused me to consider how this narrative must feel to anyone who has been a real farmer on a subsistence farm. Where the work to provide for the family can be hard and mean and dirty. Not a fairy tale at all. So, I get that. I promise I know the difference, and I have huge respect for the real work of raising food.

Now, back to my story. We though that the arborist, James Robles, would come, have a look at our amazing trees and suggest a bit of pruning, perhaps. We have, after all, planned to nestle our house in the shelter of one of the grandest oaks on the whole property. That is not what happened.

James arrived with Henry and Thomas in tow. These two are the real tree guys, as you can tell by the fisherman-type yellow slicker overalls, the knit skullcaps and generous beards. James is the one who studied trees in college, they are the ones with the hard eyes and the saws. They have a look around. The news is indeed bad. The stately old tree, the cornerstone of our site plan, is doomed. It has a enormous hole in the trunk some six feet off the ground into which years of rain have poured. The whole tree will split apart on some date in the future, near future, and crash down on whatever shelters beneath.

Well, damn. So what? Move the proposed site? But the road –lane–already leads to the present site. Not an option. There is no option but to take it down.

We are quiet on the way home. This time, we’re not fighting, just being sad. When this happens, Larry goes inside somewhere, but I will become chirpy. “It’s not so bad,” I will say, or “aren’t we lucky to learn this now.” Really irritating, I know.

It’s not raining any more. I am still enchanted, and love the property even more with the knowledge that this beautiful tree will wound the land when it comes down. Either by the wind, the weight of snow, or Henry and Thomas’s saws.