I drove to the trees with Mrs. Scurfield last night. She drank tea from a thermos while sitting on a green foldout lawn-chair with a plaid-patterned blanket on her lap. I sat on a stump with beer and whiskey in my backpack.
At Mrs. Scurfield's request I spiked her tea. She got a little talkative. "They make me sad, these trees," she said. "A bad kind of sad."
"I hate them," I told her.
"Do you?" she asked in surprise.
"Sure."
"Then why do you come out here?"
"I'd have to be a lot closer to drunk before I could tell you."
"Then drink up."
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