When Bill and I moved into the Bothell house 15 years ago, there were no trees behind it. The builder denuded the slope to build the homes in our tract. The people in the neighborhood behind us were incensed, and the City of Bothell threatened the builder with a lawsuit if he didn't plant the requisite five trees for every one he chopped down. The builder's solution was to send some of his workmen to stick scrawny little trees in the dusty soil, leaving them to fry in the summer heat. Rain came, and the neighbors behind us wound up with a basement full of mud. The city stepped in and planted small but healthy trees and cautioned us to water them well the first year.
I felt voyueristic every time I looked out my window; I could see everything the neighbors were doing in their back yard and even in their house. I walked around to their neighborhood and looked at our three-story house looming over them like a drive-in movie screen. I felt slightly ashamed for causing them to lose their scenic backyard forest.
The city's evergreen trees started to grow, ever so slowly, and the neighbors planted some fast-growing deciduous trees behind them. One summer day, I looked out and realized I couldn't see their house any more.
With the poignancy that comes from knowing you will soon be gone from a familiar place, I put my camera up against the window this morning, eager to capture the view that will no longer be mine.
Well, what do you know. The forest is back.
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