I am the Lorax. I speak for the trees. I speak for the trees, for the trees have no tongues. And I’m asking you, sir, at the top of my lungs. Oh please do not cut down another one. ~ Dr. Seuss, The Lorax
A friend of mine calls food his “love language,” which is his excuse to photograph and “share” everything he eats (or wants to eat). His young son, living on the opposite side of the country with his mother, recently asked to be removed from his divorced father’s social media, saying, “Dad, all you do is send pictures of food.”
By my friend’s standards, my love language might be trees (or pie), based on my photo archive. (I’m not so persistent as he is in sharing my photos…
That’s enough, right?
Aww, since you asked so nice…
Anyway, recently a message printed on a murdered tree delivered to the doorstep of everyone in the condo complex where I live instructed us to remove our cars from the garage early the next morning to avoid being blocked in by the tree crew coming to trim the trees on the property, “including the five sycamores out front.”
Wait one sec. Including?
Those are the only trees on our property. All other growth comes from neighbor’s trees hanging over the fences.
My Lorax-suspicions kicked in, so I e-mailed the property management and asked, “Just wanted to clarify whether it is “tree trimming” (I hope!) or “tree removal”?
Four hours later I got the punctuation-trimmed reply: