Back in New Mexico, my family used to rescue dogs. We lived out in an area where people would go to dump their dogs, and we would find them, take them in, and find homes for them, or most of them anyway, since Amy and Solo ended up becoming ours. It was all very informal. This isn’t something we do anymore, since we’ve actually not run across any stray dogs that we haven’t been able to find their owners since we moved to Alabama, much to my father’s relief.
A couple of weeks ago, my grandmother was driving past a construction site when she spotted a beautiful little wild mimosa tree that was slated to be bulldozed. She asked the foreman if she could dig it up and take it home, and he gave her the okay. Our yard man agreed to pick it up for us, and the next day, he went out to get it. Well, when he dug out around it, he discovered that its roots were wrapped around concrete, and he had to cut most of them of to pry it free. There was only this little stub of root material, and he never would have done it if the tree weren’t going to die anyway.
So he brings it over to our house, and plants it, and immediately, all of the leaves on it shrivel up, die, and fall off. The yard man says he gives it maybe a ten percent chance of surviving. The outer branches started to go brown, and it looked like he was right, and there was no way that tree was going to survive.
Then last week, the buds started to appear. And they grew, and grew, and grew, and now look at it:
This little sucker is actually going to make it.
Anyway, back when it was still this bare stick my grandmother had insisted on sticking in the ground, she told the whole story about seeing it and rescuing it from being bulldozed, the poor thing. My dad took one look at it, sighed, and said, “And here we have the start of the North Alabama Tree Rescue...”