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Published on 03/08/1999 All articles from this issue

A safe nest

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By Kerri Havnen Gordon

The Living Experiment

The only thing the insurance adjustor could see, if he happened to glance in my son's window, was the top of a periscope staring him down. The man was standing where my 50-foot, 70-year-old cedar tree had stood until a week before when it crashed to the ground during a wind storm. The adjustor and I had just finished haggling over the damage claim, and I went inside while he used his cell phone to call my agent.

My younger son was in a spying mood. In addition to the periscope, he was using a battery-powered parabolic ear to eavesdrop the phone call. About $800 in damages were in dispute, so I encouraged him to pick up any snippets of conversation. "Cool!" he said. "I'm spying on an insurance agent!"

I realize that mothers shouldn't encourage their children to spy on unsuspecting adults, even when money is at stake. Though when I looked at him crouched beneath the window, jammie-clad and spy tools in hand, he looked adorable, and I felt nothing but a grateful heart for how things had turned out.

The windstorm the week before had been powerful. I had awakened at 12:30 a.m. to hear the wind utterly howling, and as always during such a storm, I feared for two trees on our lot. The enormous cedar tree in the back yard jerked and swayed with the gusts, and I hoped it wouldn't come down in my bedroom. I didn't even want to think about the old cedar in the front yard, so close to my younger son's bed, and I remained awake and unsettled.

A deafening boom jolted me out of bed around 3 a.m. Seeing that the tree in the back was still upright, I ran to my kids' bedrooms and was relieved to find everything in order. But when I looked out my kitchen window, I saw only air where the huge cedar in the front yard had always so faithfully stood.

In a panic I rushed outside and found that the tree had indeed fallen. It threaded a 12-foot space between our house and our neighbors', its enormous trunk coming to quick rest just three feet from our house, but more importantly, just three feet from my younger son's bed. I awakened my husband, who hadn't heard a thing, and we ran back out with a flashlight to inspect the uprooted tree.

Adrenaline-charged and shaking from the horrible thought of the consequences had the giant fallen a mere yard clockwise, we came in for the night and checked on the kids. When I entered our younger son's room, he softly said, "Hi Mom." Sweeter words I have never known.

My husband then joined me in prolonged wakefulness, which lasted almost the rest of the night. At some point before dawn, he said, "I'm not sure if I believe in miracles, but this may qualify."

The next day I skipped work and held court for a myriad of people attending to our natural disaster, which thankfully was no tragedy and caused remarkably little damage. Two tree-removal guys, a representative from the city, a PG&E crew, and a steady stream of friends and neighbors came to marvel at the sight, many mentioning that "someone was looking out for us" or that our son has "a guardian angel."

For the next week, their words kept coming back to me as things gradually returned to normal. The tree was swiftly removed, the insurance matters resolved, and my son got great use of the spy toys he received for Christmas. But most importantly, my heart remained grateful that the felled tree barely disturbed the residents of the adjacent, humble nest.

Kerri Havnen Gordon writes The Living Experiment monthly for the Town Crier.