The Scarborough Mirror

But it was healthy and a beautiful specimen of black walnut. After a week of talking to it we, my wife and I, decided it was either deaf or I was nuts. So we admired rather than tried to change it, teach it new tricks. The jury remains out on that score.

That was 20 years ago and co-occupancy of our little tract of Scarborough landscape remains a give-and-take affair. The tree does whatever it likes and we tend to clean up, sweep and accept. After all, it was here a century ago.

To accept required some adjustments to our lifestyle. One does not just move in and expect a giant tree to sidestep, change its ways overnight. Especially in the fall when its nuts are ripe and the squirrels are anxious to collect and horde their winter snacks.

Some folks like the sound of drums. Tip, tap, tip, tap and so on including the odd riff, and thunderous crash of a massive blow to a base drum. There is no question the rhythm, repeat and consistent sound of stick on skin can be intoxicating, even musical.

But squirrels, harvesting large, green and decidedly heavy walnuts are another matter.

Especially when the furry beasts decide your car hood is the perfect place to drop one, two or more nuts from their lofty perch at the top of the tree.

Being rather astute, it took me two years and several dents to the roof, hood and trunk of my vehicle before I realized what was causing the damage. Even the clutter of shell and skin fragments left to stain the driveway was no clue to me.

The awakening came with a thud, rather a blow to the head. My cranium.

I was just about to get into the car when wham, a walnut slammed onto my skull. I dropped like a stone. My hair felt wet and, not hurt, I staggered upright and turned my gaze to the heavens.

A black squirrel looked back at me.

From his perch I must have appeared small, a rival for his treasured and highly eatable nut. So he dropped a second one and it seemed aimed for my head. Only by sidestepping did I manage to escape being hit again.

I longed for an air rifle, a .22 or even a slingshot. How dare that furry nut-gathering, garden-disrupting beast hurl missiles at my head. Especially when the missile is covered in a shell of flesh that contains a dark brown and highly staining juice.

Of course, the creature ignored me and went about his business. I gathered my self-respect, rubbed my head with Kleenex and jumped into the car, then backed out of the drive just as another walnut smashed down.

Now in the fall, we park away from under the tree. Some years ago we also had the largest, lowest limbs lopped and generally tried to civilize the tree. It did not seem to mind and continues to thrive, dominating the skyline by our house.

Would I chop it down? No way. But a huge net, giant vacuum and crew of garden specialists might make our co-habitation with this giant tree easier.

It would help if the squirrels changed their harvesting process. Then again, I am not nutty enough to walk under the tree to chat with them. When it comes to pinpoint bombing, no human is as accurate.