The Lollipop Tree

At any given moment on la Calle Septiembre, there is a flurry of activity, starting with the nest of chirping birds tucked deep inside the tree in front of our house. Hidden in their dense and leafy oasis, this tight-knit avian family knows better than to spend their day swooping around town. Instead, they dwell full-time in the luxuriant greenery of the lollipop tree. The lollipop tree, petite and well-coiffed like a prim poodle, is unlike any other tree found in my native home, where maple, elm and oak trees soar skyward. Its branches are intertwined deep within its immediate radius and its exterior pouf of leaves lend the tree a slightly comical look, much like an over-stylized pompadour on an otherwise unnoticeable twiggy man. And when found in group, such as in mall parking lots, lollipop trees are every pruner’s nightmare—impossible to shear to perfection, as an uncertain snip will result in a goofy looking dent or a lopsided ‘do.

Yet flimsy, this tree is not—its branches withstand the climbing of any bold neighborhood child who wants a fifteen foot advantage on his enemies. However, once he ventures deeper into the foliage, five sharp beaks attached to fast and furious wings await him, ready to attack whatever hapless intruder scales into their territory. For this particular nest of birds is fully aware of the value of the wood their claws dig so deeply into—they made their home in the very best spot of shade on the block.

In a city where shade is sacred and rising temperatures turn cars into ovens on wheels, Roberto and I feel pretty lucky to have one of the most ample trees on the block. Despite the hazards of parking underneath the permanent aviary, we gladly accept the smattering of gray fecal matter that adorns the car roof and know that we are still the envy of all of the neighbors. Our snow-white Volkswagen Pointer is a two-door modern adaptation of the original VW Beetle—there are no frills to be found, from power steering to air-conditioning. For these reasons, it’s always a combination of many factors to keep ourselves dry and happy while en route to work—a vehicle prepped in poop-filled shade and once we are in motion, donning sunglasses and perching on the edge of our seat Mr. Bean-style while puttering to our destination.

Thus, like the birds, we are reluctant to turn the key into the ignition and leave the cool shade to whatever vulture wants to swoop in and steal it from us. Often, on particularly suffocating afternoons, we will find someone else’s hunk of metal parked underneath the lollipop tree, basking in its shade. On such occasions, we’ll grumble out a few choice words and while I’m too non-confrontational to do so myself, I whole-heartedly support Roberto in parking our tiny Volkswagen right up against their fender.

Most of the neighbors respect each other’s parking spots, as few of us park our cars on the house patios, and we all have each other’s cars pegged down. The rowdy clan next door squeezes into two rusting Ford Escorts complete with tinted windows, Jesus stickers and a barking alarm system, warning would-be robbers to step away from the automobile. The other neighbors drive a true motley crew of cars—newer family-sized vehicles, one vintage Beetle and perhaps a green taxi or two thrown in. Unlike our neighbors, whose presumptuous alarm makes us cringe in its bad taste, I think a more subtle, all-organic system is in order to protect our sheltered haven under the lollypop tree. All we need to do is figure out an alliance with those territorial birds and persuade them to release on command and let justice rain down.