Digging Trees

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

When I first landed in Santa Fe in late October of 1992, I turned my attention to generating cash flow while looking for a place to live and more permanent work. I signed up with a temp agency for “manual / light industrial.” Within a day or two I got a call. The agency had a client who owned a nursery. He needed help digging trees, and being familiar with the business end of a shovel, I agreed to show up the next morning to start at eight o’clock.

I pulled into the yard in “Old Betsy,” my pickup truck. Larry came ambling out of the little casita carrying a cup of coffee. He was an older guy with a big frame and was a little out of shape. He was friendly and after introducing ourselves, he pointed out the mattock and spades I would be using and told me to take them to the lower field. He was in the middle of his breakfast and would be along with me shortly. I got my water bottle from the truck, gathered the tools and went to the field, one side of which was bordered by the Santa Fe River, now a dry sandy bed. Cholla, Larry’s old golden retriever joined me. She was completely white around the muzzle, but happy to be going for a stroll. There were neat rows of aspens, locusts and cottonwoods. In another section were various pines and firs. The trees, all western species were new to me. I studied them while I waited. It was cold, and loitering around a chill settled into me. But the sun was climbing in the clear blue sky.

Larry showed up in about half an hour with a spool of twine and a bundle of burlap pieces to wrap the dug tree’s root balls in. He gave me some instructions on how much of a ball to dig so not to damage the root structures, and warned me to be careful of spines on the locusts. He pointed out about a dozen trees for me to dig and said we’d deliver and plant them after lunch. I thought this was no big deal, but couldn’t have been more wrong.

Digging trees is hard work. It’s not only a matter of digging around the tree’s root system but digging under it. Always, the tree is in the middle of the action, so there’s a lot of bending over and scooping out soil and eventually working on one’s hands and knees. By mid morning I had worked up a sweat, and took a break. I watched aircraft flying high overhead, their snow white contrails sharp against the sky. I wondered who was on these planes and where were they going. I studied my surroundings, the cottonwoods along the river, dimming from their brilliant yellow fall foliage in the sharp high altitude sun. By lunch time my body ached in places I previously didn’t know existed. I don’t remember how many trees I dug, but do remember Larry was pleased with the work.

After lunch, with the thought of a nap on my mind, we hoisted the trees into the back of Larry’s faded old Chevy pickup and off we went. At our various destinations, all up-scale homes, Larry would point out where each particular tree would go and I would start digging holes. We’d get the trees planted and give them a good soaking with a hose. Then on to the next house, we worked until after dark.

Most nights getting home, despite being sore and exhausted I felt good. After a hot shower, I would eat dinner, read for a while and go to bed. Getting a good night’s sleep was never a problem. I dug trees for Larry for a few weeks until his orders for the season were filled. A job then came up building doors for an architectural millwork company.

Gordon Bunker