Chapter 21

‍ ‍A Trouble Tree by W. Jim Cortese

Jim Cortese is a mostly retired Consulting Arborist and writer. Mr. Cortese has a degree in forestry from the University of Tennessee. He is the first person to have ever called himself an arborist or urban forester in the state of Tennessee.

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Many years ago in the late 1970s, I hired a plumber to help me restore an old 1887 Italianate Victorian home I had purchased in the Fourth and Gill neighborhood just northeast of downtown Knoxville, Tennessee, and a few blocks from the Old Knoxville High School. At the time I did not know that the neighborhood was considered to be a very rough, dangerous place to be and live. This house had been condemned by the city. The front porch was caving in. The ceilings had all been lowered. There was a large, burned hole in the floor of a small room on the south side of the house. The clapboard exterior was covered with a very ugly decaying faux 1950s siding. The electric system was from the 1920s. There were the remnants of an old coal stoke furnace in the basement. Most of the piping dated from the early 1900s including lead piping that was bent around corners; all were in dire need of love, repair, or replacement. Being in my early twenties, I fell in love with this marvelous rundown home. At that time, the plumbing was the logical place to start the renovation. A plumber was hired and he and I created a plan of action to fix and update the piping system.

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My plumber came to work at my home and worked very hard. He had been there four or five days, and he made real headway on the project. However, he did have his share of problems to deal with, especially on that fourth or fifth day. His early electric drill died, and he had to drive to Green’s Hardware store on North Gay Street downtown to get another one. When he came out of the hardware store, he discovered a flat tire on the left rear of his trusty old truck, a 1939 Ford Panel van. This caused him to lose a few hours or so of work. He returned to the job and again worked diligently until quitting time. He just finished this rough day on the job and packed up all of his tools into his antique truck, and it refused to start. Feeling his pain in this situation, I drove him home, and all the way, he sat in stony silence. On arriving at his home, he invited me in to meet his family. As we walked toward the front door, he paused briefly at a small dogwood tree about twenty feet tall adjacent to the walkway. He reached out and touched the tips, twigs, and leaves of the branches with both hands, cupping them gently and slowly pulling his hands toward himself as if petting the branches numerous times. He then left the tree, walked a short distance up the steps, and continued to the front door. Upon opening the door, he had undergone an amazing transformation. His ruddy, tanned face was wreathed in smiles, and he hugged his three small children and gave his wife a tender kiss and hug.

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Afterward, he walked me to my car. We passed the tree, and my curiosity got the better of me. I asked him about what I had just seen him do earlier at the little tree. “Oh, that’s my trouble tree,” he replied. “I know I cannot help having troubles and problems on the job during the day, but one thing is for sure, those troubles do not belong in the house with my wife and children. So I just hang them up on the tree every evening when I come home and ask God to take care of them. Then, in the morning, I pick them up again.” “Funny thing is”—he smiled—“when I come out in the morning to pick the problems up again, there are never as many as I remember hanging up the night before.”

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