doing what needs to be done

Bill Buckley used to tell the story of what became of the tree that gave its name to the family estate, Great Elm.

The great elm was just that. The largest elm tree in Connecticut. But its size did not save it from the Dutch elm disease that ravaged the trees of the northeast.

Rather than hire someone to cut down the tree, Buckley, Sr. picked up an ax, and in the words of his son, "Did what needed to be done."

For some reason that stark phrase has, for me, long summed up the sense of duty that is ensconced in our daily tasks. We do them because they need to be done.

While indisposed this past week, my household tasks have built up. Both inside the house and outside.

Because we are smack dab in the middle of the tropics here on the west coast of Mexico, everything that grows will grow with very little encouragement. That is, until it is eaten by some insect or melted by a virus.

The ultimate brake on keeping us from being interred in twining vines is the rain. We have a dry season that runs approximately from November to May, and a rainy season that starts in June and keeps us blissfully wet until about October.

During the dry season, the surrounding hills progressively brown up until they turn an almost Tolkien gray. You could easily believe orcs live in the woods this time of year. Once the rains starts, trees start leafing-out.

This year our rain has been playing with us as shamefully as a chorine teasing a stage-door Johnny. Since the start of the month, we have had three separate rain bouts. Enough water to qualify as rain, but barely enough to kick start the greening of the hills.

The boost in humidity and temperature has kicked the vines in my patio into high growth mode. In the winter, I can get by with trimming them once every six weeks. That cycle has now moved to once every other week.

Because they are as cosseted as a Lhasa Apso on a diva's lap, they do not need to wait for the rains. Dora waters them at least once a week.

My patio this morning looked like the mop on top of a 1970s teenager. Cowlicks and hanks everywhere. So, like Papa Buckley, I grabbed my loppers and climbed to the upper terrace to start giving my hippie vines a flat-top.

I wish I could say it was easy work. It wasn't. Because the vines had grown at least a week too long without some discipline, they had managed to intertwine into rather effective ropes that frustrated my attempt to prune to a flat surface.

And it was hot. Very hot. And humid. Both of those factors will increase as the summer drips along. But it was hot enough for me to be satisfied with trimming the tops of the trellises. The faces will wait until Wednesday.

Not every task could wait, though. Dora's husband, Nico, stopped  by to pick her up just as I was gathering up my trimming tools. She asked him if he would help us clean up the palm fronds my neighbor dropped in front of the house. He jumped at the opportunity. Dora grabbed the machete and a bag of leaf bags, and we set forth for the Battle of the Fronds.

Between the three of us, we had bagged all of the fronds and then cleaned up the garbage and weeds in the street in front of the apartment building next door -- all within fifteen minutes. I offered Nico some pesos. He refused in the usual manner. I insisted.

For a few pesos, what could have been the linchpin of a neighborhood feud has been put to rest. For now.

I considered pulling out the ladder again to finish up trimming the vines this afternoon, but, they will still be there next Wednesday when Dora can monitor my balance on the ladder.

There are things that need to be done.

And there are things that can wait.