Monday March 17

It's Islay's 11th birthday, today. My dog and both my parents are now firmly in their senior years. Mom calls to tell me they've hired some arborists to fell a few trees in their wooded backyard. Slated for execution is Dr. Pepper, the massive white pine that grew directly outside my boyhood window. I don't remember why I named it Dr. Pepper — I was only four when we moved there — but it's become a beloved landmark and feels like an extension of the house.

When my parents started building in 1981 they spared this tree and cut a hole in the deck around it. As its circumference grew, my dad enlarged the opening until it reached a crossbeam, then he found a way around that problem too. It has been our primary shade tree and its evergreen needles have danced outside my old bedroom window for as long as I can remember. It became a popular destination for flying squirrels. 

We all love Dr. Pepper, but he too is now a senior who stands perilously close to the house. My dad is afraid it will fall on the roof, an emergency that would be tough to handle. I understand it's time to say goodbye. My mom's voice caught when she told me the news. The house will look significantly altered next time I visit, but I'm grateful for the warning; I'd hate to be caught off guard. 

At the brewpub a folk band is doing their best with some Irish tunes. I'm at the far end of the bar drinking an obligatory St. Patrick's Day beer. To my right is the kitchen service window where a hand periodically delivers plates of fried food onto the stainless steel shelf and rings a bell. My parents text my brother and I photos of Dr. Pepper's dismantling which are a little heartbreaking. They've found an old photo of my dad just after they bought the lot, standing next to the tree with only the foundation of our house behind him. The next image is of him today standing on the deck next to its broad stump. Everything changes. So long, Dr. Pepper.