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A writer, graphic designer, photographer, and lawyer, David lives in Michigan with his wife and two children.
Seagulls from the golf course used to screech from our gables on the days we would drag our garbage bags to the street. Now, sparrows and goldfinches shuttled domestically among our branches, and wind skimming off the man-made lake persuaded deciduous knuckles to rap against the glass of our windows.
A tree, we believed, can never be ugly. A tree can never be ugly, unless, we qualified, it is scarified by blade or wire.
We were neither poor nor rich so the trees, bought mature, set us back financially. Window treatments were going to break us. So we searched until we found honeycomb shades half price from a wholesaler in Georgia. We installed our affordable shades, delivered at dawn to our Michigan porch, in a single summer afternoon. Each shaded window filtered sunlight into a radiant golden glow. We were so relieved we fell asleep.
Or unless tentworms have mitted a tree's branches in their sticky webs.
Otherwise, a tree can never be ugly.
Or unless spraypainted. Or poked with orange or red flags. Or made into unfortunate furniture.
We were apprehensive about schools and jobs. Attendance, generally understood to be mandatory, threatened exposure. Like our ancestors, we grew beards and wore our hair long. We looked at the floor as we walked. In the classroom, our children followed their lessons behind the picket fences of their fingers. We got along, secure in the sturdy trunks of our ribs, just as our grandparents did.
A shrubbery is never so beautiful as a tree.
Unless a tree is bulldozed, uprooted. A tree can even stand burned and charred-leafless, tortured, skeletal-and it will yet wrest beauty from the wind.
We found meaning in our work. We listened to our hearts-well, to be accurate, our hearts were in our heads, and it was there, in the copse of our imaginations, that we listened to the stirrings in dry leaves-and we tempered our inner counsel with reference to the needs and desires of others. We made beautiful things. We made beautiful things out of wood or with wood, mainly. We worried that making things out of wood, which required us to chop down trees, exposed in us a paradoxical hypocrisy with regard to our feelings about trees and their beauty. But, we already well knew, feelings weren't everything. So we made beautiful things out of our hypocrisy. We tried not to bother our neighbors too much.
When our neighbors complained at our subdivision's Association meeting that our trees were blocking their rightful access to sunlight, we neither attended nor argued.
Instead, we hired tree surgeons to prune our trees to proportions acceptable to all. This was more easily and quickly done than expected, and our neighbors were caught up short in their indignation. They were forced to consider themselves satisfied, and they did not like the feel of it.
Our neighbors seared pork and pepper kabobs on their patio grill. Eating on shining metal furniture, they glared at each other in the raw smoky haze. In the minty shade of a willow, our children built moats in the sandbox. High above on our elevated deck, we fit secret drawers into the chests of our trees.
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Most Helpful Customer Reviews
2 of 2 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
Lovely,
By Zoe Trope (Oregon, USA) - See all my reviews
This review is from: We Were Ugly So We Made Beautiful Things (Paperback)
Frightening and necessary. Maybe frighteningly necessary. My favorite piece is "Out of Pounds", which made me laugh and then cringe because I, too, am a fat girl on a bike. Read it. Read it now.
2 of 2 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
Magnifico!,
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This review is from: We Were Ugly So We Made Beautiful Things (Paperback)
Dave Barringer's creative snowball continues to roll. Keep an eye on this man.
2 of 2 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
Beautiful things made MORE beautiful!,
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This review is from: We Were Ugly So We Made Beautiful Things (Paperback)
If there was one book that I could smear on my skin, I'd make it Barringer's. Ever since I first read him on Opium Magazine's web site, I've hung on his every word. He's a magical being more than a writer, and if I were to meet him I'd ask to touch his unihorn.
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