“It’s just always me that has to come down, do the housework, if you will. It’s patriarchal bullshit is what it is.”
“I guess I don’t see it this way. Couldn’t it just be he has tremendous confidence in your ability?”
“My abilities out of the tree, ass in a chair.”
“Maybe you’re just good at what you do.”
“No. Obviously the LAWYER sitting in the tree back there is better at it than me. He just likes the attention, the power. He’s a man, after all.”
“Maybe he is just being chivalrous too, Joni. I don’t think he wants to see you get hurt.”
Joni’s face contorted into a look of pure fury. After shaking her head and swallowing a few times, she continued.
“Look, Mrs. Emmons, I know your intentions are noble but you don’t know anything about Michael and I, where we’ve been, what we’ve been through.”
“Then tell me,” Maybelline answered.
“We can’t. The anonymity protects us.” What Joni also couldn’t adequately express to Maybelline was her anxiety around how the county employees would treat them. It was very stressful being in the belly of the beast and likely Maybelline had no idea…
“Have you ever fought for something? Like gone to a public hearing, written a letter to a politician, gone to a protest?” Joni asked tersely.
“Well, I met Oak at the public meeting for the tree. I was prepared to give a speech—”
“Before that? Anything?”
Maybelline shook her head no.
“I didn’t think so,” Joni snapped. “So you have no idea—”
“I’m fighting for something now,” Maybelline parried.
“Yeah, but only by accident.”
Irritated, Maybelline could tell it was hopeless so she didn’t reply back. They swung into a copy place, made a few copies of the NOI, then continued on to the county. Maybelline would try to find the Planner I, Ms. Foulip, and help Joni, if Joni would let her.
Joni bit the side of her lip. She hated this part. Oak knew why she didn’t want to do it anymore. Sometimes these people, so-called “public servants”, hated them, obstructed them…They could be rude, sometimes downright mean. They would (knowingly) lead her to the wrong room, wrong files, the files would be ‘missing’, charge her 50 cents a page to make copies then the copier would be ‘broken’. It exhausted her. Her only hope was she hadn’t shown up in the papers or on the Internet much. When the cameras clicked, she always made sure she had her head turned or she would slink out of the photo just in time. The past few days worried her. She knew a couple reporters got her, one displaying a pathetic attempt at flirting with her. (Cute as a button, she was used to it. Her response was to use it to their full advantage, up to a point, meaning never betraying her love for Michael. While he would never tell her, overtly anyway, Michael considered the savvy way she used her sex appeal yet another demonstration of her artful intelligence). If the county employees recognized her, the day could turn out to be very exhausting not to mention she had an appendage she had to drag along with her all day; maybe Maybelline would find something else to do. She could only hope.
They walked to the second floor, Planning and Zoning. What Joni wanted was any information about the original ranch, the first parcel split off from it, which could tell her how far back the timber rights stretched. After signing in, they sat in a little waiting area with magazines. Joni got up and browsed the pamphlets. There was one about rats. One about dry rot. One about illegal grading. One about conserving water. One about signs. One about West Nile virus and controlling mosquitoes. Thinking the entire white race seems to suffer from obsessive-compulsive disorder, finally their names were called. Maybelline was shuttled off to the Planner I while Joni was told to go to the historical society. They wrote down the address. They wouldn’t have information about the original ranch at the planning office. It had been too long. They escorted her back to the waiting area. Annoyed, Joni asked the woman at the counter to tell Maybelline she would be in the library downstairs. After about 15 minutes, Maybelline appeared. Joni was looking at a book of historical photographs of Santa Rosa, hoping one of them might show the tree. They browsed a few more books. In one of them, a 1990’s tourist guide, three photographs showed a logging operation. They peered at the men in the photos looking for a younger, thinner Tank. You never know. With directions to the Historical Society in hand, they set out again. Maybelline gave Oak a call. He didn’t answer so she left a message.
Of course the Historical Society was closed, the hours sporadic: open Wednesdays and Saturdays from 11-3, and on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 9-4. It was Monday. They would have to try in the morning.
“They never fund these things so it’s probably run by just a few volunteers. God forbid we give a shit about our history. This is a cluster fuck,” Joni carped. “Back to the tree.”
People were arriving to look at Oak in the tree as if he was some kind of monkey in the zoo (actually, part of that, taxonomically speaking, is true). Immediately upon seeing the two of them, the first words Oak shouted down to them was if they had made copies of the NOI because he needed the original to repost. Armed and ready, Joni waved the laminated original in the air while Oak made his way to the ground holding a hammer and a stake, the stake coming from a pile of debris on the lot. Thrilled that people were around, with some fanfare, Oak hammered the NOI to the stake then pounded it into the ground a few feet away from the tree.
Assuming his Moses stance, arms open wide to all that passed, he bellowed, “this is the legal notice, the death sentence for this tree! A legal notice that lacks the most important thing—proof that this company, this man, has the right to cut the tree down! People, we need your help and your vigilance to make sure this does not happen!”
People clapped, chimed in, phones clicked, photos were taken, including of the Acorn Gang who suddenly found themselves in front of the tree; Joni and Maybelline deftly slipped out of view. After most of the cameras were gone, Joni and Maybelline wandered back to the tree.
“Good turn out,” Joni commented as she ascended the tree to the platform. Oak asked Maybelline if she wanted to come up. She declined. Unfolding her chair for her, he invited her to sit down; he had a few things to inform her about.
By saying he was an attorney representing a businessman interested in building a Squirrel-Mart, he had been able to finagle a good contact at Squirrel-Mart’s corporate headquarters, a guy named Barry. Barry was involved in the (almost) deal and confirmed that indeed Tank’s family held the rights to remove the tree, and, yes, they were going to hire Tank “to take care of it”, as if it was Mafia style hit. They didn’t give one shit about the tree. Inhaling a giant breath, Oak prepared to tell Maybelline the real significance of their conversation: when he asked Barry if he had actually SEEN any official paperwork confirming that Tank’s family holds the timber rights, Barry said no. The transaction hadn’t progressed to that point yet, “but of course we would have required that first”.
“So it looks like NOBODY, not the county, not Squirrel-Mart, not Millicent’s son—NOBODY has seen the actual original paperwork that says the Darden’s can cut down our tree. Un-fucking believable!” he exclaimed, flabbergasted.
“But the county approved it. I still don’t understand—”
“Contingent on proof of the title for the timber rights. THEY HAVEN’T SEEN IT EITHER!” Oak spun around.
“Yes, this is what Jim said. The county can approve things on a contingency basis—”
“It may all be a fucking chimera!” Arms out, Oak spun around again and yelled, “shit!”
Maybelline looked up at the tree then shook her head, speechless.
“There’s going to be a run on the thing, by everybody; the county to cover their ass, likely Jim and Laura to cover theirs in case you sell it back to them or Squirrel-Mart gets ugly, and definitely the Darden’s because I think it’s a goddamn bluff on their part or they’re do
ing a deep title search even as we stand here. It is possible some great great grandpa or cousin, aunt, who knows, told them it’s theirs, verbal only, nothing on paper because this happens all the time with these sorts of things, and now they’re scrambling to find the proof or possibly fabricating it.” Oak laughed. “It’s a mad, mad, mad fucking world right here, right now, over this tree.” Oak smacked his hand against the tree.
Maybelline shook her head again and all that came out was a tired “this is crazy”.
“You’re probably tired,” Oak looked at her compassionately.
“I am,” Maybelline said releasing a big sigh, “and it’s only what? 1:00 in the afternoon?”
“This is hard work, going up against capitalism, the system. Hard fucking work.”
“All right,” Maybelline said standing up. She asked them if they needed anything (Joni had already said no). Did they want to come back with her, take a shower, get some food? As expected, they said no. She mentioned a possible summer storm in the forecast…she and Joni heard it over the radio. She told them to be careful. They reminded her that if the weather got too severe, they had the van.
The chaos only at a low roar at that point, she hugged Oak, or more accurately, he hugged her and sent her back to her hotel. She would pick Joni up in the morning. She felt drained. Thinking about what they were taking on, the pending stress of the situation, she reflected on how the morning went. She didn’t appreciate Joni’s condescension, rudeness. She decided not to speak to Oak about it but ‘Skipper’ was turning out to be quite the little bitch.
She stopped at the grocery store to get a bottle of wine, something cold, dry, and white. A thin elderly woman shuffling down another aisle made her think for a second it was Millicent. The idea of it made her sad again, then it made her angry. What would she say to Millicent now? “It’s a good thing you’re dead because if it was you, I’d probably kill you,” she thought.
She was irritated, edgy, tired, wired. Glad she packed her bathing suit, she would avail herself of the spa and pool at the hotel. She made a dinner reservation. Her phone rang. It wasn’t Oak and Joni. She let it go to voice mail. Maybe the rest of the day could be semi-normal, she could pretend anyway. She could try.
Once again the next morning she found herself contemplating how strange it was to be waiting for someone to come down from a tree, leading her to ask herself how her life had gotten so weird, leading to Millicent, leading to Jay who would be stunned to see his rather conventional wife part of an eco-protest.
They were fighting again. Maybelline heard “patriarchal bullshit” from Joni, apparently this bug still up her ass (was there such as thing as a “patriarchal” beetle, she wondered?). Uncomfortable yet committed to keeping her mouth shut, she wandered back to her car to give them ‘some space’ even if people were starting to show up. She watched the kids, the Acorn Gang, tickled they were turning into ‘welcome wagon’ for anyone worried about the tree. Oak hollered for her.
“Big ass plastic bags, if at all possible, eco-friendly! We’re going to clean the place up, all of us! I’m going to get all these people to help! We’ll take it all to the dump!” he broadcasted. Of course grateful, this definitely wasn’t what she was expecting to hear from him, more that he and Joni were fighting and he was going instead.
Coming to understand that nothing seemed to crush his spirit, like a mother, she felt much warmth and love for him in that moment. She smiled. She would get the strongest, most eco-friendly “big ass” bags she could find.
“Oh, and she’s coming,” he added.
Thrilled that today she would get her “tour in the tree” from Oak, Tamara met Maybelline and asked her if she liked her new oversized baseball hat that had something on the front of it Maybelline did not understand. Feeling a little overwhelmed, she waited in her Jeep. Within seconds of deciding she should do the research herself, she looked out the windshield to see Joni stomping her way to the passenger side; she brusquely opened the door and slammed herself into the seat with a gruff, “I’m here”. Paralyzed for a second by indecision (should I say anything?) Maybelline remained silent and they drove off.
“Why do historical society buildings always look and smell, well, so historical?” Joni queried as they worked their way up, of course, creaky stairs to the research room. A historical looking man wearing thick bottle-glass type glasses directed them to the “19th century” section of the archives then to a section filed by the names of the historic ranches. ‘Bug eyes’ told them to be careful—some of the ledgers, etc. were fragile, the pages could fall out, but after this, they were on their own. He also told them as far as deeds of trust, titles, etc., he could not guarantee they would have them; they could be at the county, in the planning, zoning, or assessor departments. This caused Maybelline to sigh while Joni nodded her head and laughed a little, amused, used to these dendrological magical mystery tours.
They got side tracked, sitting side by side looking at black and white photographs of Sonoma County circa late 1800’s. Bucolic images of oak woodlands and meadows that went on and on so that one person, one horse, one deer was only a dot; and though black and white, the photos showed the native wildflowers and grasses, so many of them, so thick, pristine. It made both of them sigh. Maybelline’s heart ached because the images reminded her of those times, the Jay and Millicent times. Joni commented about how incredible it would be to find their tree in one of the photographs. She recounted how they found a historical photograph of a grove of old-growth western hemlock they were sitting in when they were in Idaho. Discovery of the photo helped save the grove.
“It does something to you, seeing the trees, the land, then, and seeing it now, surrounded by development, parking lots, like seeing someone before and after they do drugs, before and after they get cancer,” Joni commented.
“It fills me with longing,” Maybelline said staring at a photo of a retriever type dog standing under a large oak, not their oak, but it didn’t matter; it still made her sad. The dog reminded her of Lockey.
“I was born at the wrong time,” Joni added, staring at a photograph of a young woman standing in an endless oak-dotted meadow, pants tucked into high boots, in the background, her horse grazes. “I can’t even imagine,” she said wistfully. Snapping herself out of it, she warned they were getting side-tracked. They needed to get back to work, work that included searching through hundreds of hand and typewritten pages, trace the chain of title from the original deed to the first major cut when/if somebody, some entity acquired the timber rights. From there they had to trace the timber rights up to the present day. It was rarely an easy task. Joni told Maybelline timber rights could be a mess—this ten acres going to one person, that 15 to another. Sometimes it was in writing, sometimes it was verbal, more often than not, no proof was ever established but they cut anyway. Timber rights could be issued in perpetuity but sometimes there was a time limit, 20 years, 50 years. They could still fight it if the rights were issued in perpetuity but it would be a lot easier if there was a deadline. Owing to Tank’s behavior, she and Oak felt the deadline was looming or maybe it had even passed. Maybelline recounted Jim Bock’s explanation—that the Darden’s way of life was coming to an end, they were facing financial hard times, all the violations…Maybe this was their last tree.
“Can they make decent money off the lumber?” she asked Joni.
“Hell yes. Check on the timber value of valley oak. It’s not great for lumber but it is in demand for cabinetry.”
Somebody’s cell phone rang. It was Joni’s. It was Oak. While Joni was filling him in, bug eyes appeared and asked them to turn off their phones, after all people were doing research. Maybelline and Joni looked around. There were no other people in the research room but them. Nonetheless, Joni told Oak she would call him back and they turned off their phones.
Joni wouldn’t take a break, leaving Maybelline to lunch by herself at a nearby cafe. She ordered Joni a sandwich and insisted that Joni eat i
t, outside, take a break. They sat on the bench in front of the historical society. Joni called Oak. He was trying to prepare dinner in the tree using a solar cooker. He reported the red-tailed hawk landed not too far above his head. “It cocked it’s head to look down at me and stuck around.” It made her smile. That he got so excited by these sorts of things was one thing she loved about him. After the call, she told Maybelline it was likely they would end up at the county offices again; then she got quiet. Studying her, Maybelline took the conversation in a different direction.
“Did you grow up in California?”
“Can’t you tell? Of course.” As if anticipating Maybelline’s interest, or perhaps she had just been drilled too many times, she continued answering the questions sure to come.
“I’m 33, Michael’s 31. We’re both only children. I grew up at protests, one of the most radical places in California, at least then…My parents were heavily involved in saving the forests—Humboldt County. Both were at Headwaters (Maybelline didn’t know what this was. She would look it up later). It was particularly difficult, I don’t know, awkward (?) for my dad since he worked at the local health clinic; yes, he was a doctor. He patched up loggers, sometimes saving a finger, a hand, a foot…I mean, literally saving them—putting them on ice and getting someone to transport them, the logger and their respective body part, to the hospital.” She laughed. “Sometimes the logger drove his own body part to the emergency room. There was a dude that chopped two fingers off his right hand, drove himself to the emergency room with his left. It got pretty nuts.” She laughed again and continued. “My mom ran an environmental non-profit. Since I was taken to a lot of protests early on, I guess this is just what I know.” She paused. “What I know is injustice in any form infuriates me.”
“How long—?”
“About five years now. We’ve saved everything from individual trees to acres, public and private. Of course, our first was a stand of old growth redwood on the coast. We saved it so then we felt empowered.” She paused. “The worst was Tongass National Forest in southeast Alaska. Beautiful majestic Sitka spruce, about 300 acres of them.”
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