We have a maple tree in our back yard, which I love. I love it even though it drops things which need to be swept away. I love it even though it renders our backyard a virtual growth-free zone. It's given us syrup (OH SO FANTASTIC!) and beauty and it's a good tree.
One of the things it drops is maple keys. The maple key season is oodles of fun because Chutney the cat watches them drop through the window and goes crazy over every single one. She wants to devour each and every maple key that drops within her sight. They madden her. She makes unusual noises and hurls herself bodily at the windows if they get too close. She feels more passionately about the maple keys than she does about passing birds.
The maple keys get swept up, of course. They are small little buggers, though, and one or two escape the great broom to the compost heap. Those guys, to a one, turn into little trees. Or at least they try. Yesterday afternoon, I started to see baby maples popping up in the garden. I am a baby-maple killing monster. If I see one I cannot prevent myself from yanking it up. I'll cross fresh crocus beds to murder a little tree. It's not that I don't like maples ... I do, very much. I just know that given half a chance, our whole house would be destroyed by their probing roots and strong trunks. I cannot possibly give them half a chance. I can't give them a quarter of a chance. No fraction of a chance will be offered to the maple babies.
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