We have an emerald ash. It has been bored. By an emerald ash borer. You may remember this insect from some glum reports of previous years; they made their way north, ruining things for everyone, and now they are here spoiling our boulevards. You wish the insect was bigger so you could give it such a slap. "Shame on you."

Fifteen years ago our neighborhood lost a magnificent stand of elms, and, of course, everyone suspected the elm bark beetles But we thought they had done their work and moved on long ago. What, did they re-form like aging action-movie heroes for one last adventure? Bruce Willis and Arnold Schwarzenegger in beetle form, chewing tiny cigars, trading quips, spreading fungus?

To be honest, it's worse to lose an elm. The ash? Eh. It always looked unkempt and slapdash, as if were really just a big, hard weed that was surprised it got this far. It never mastered the art of burying its roots; they jut out and trip small children. It's probably been one big storm away from taking out the power and phone lines, peeling off gutters, sticking a branch through a window. It wouldn't be surprised because it never thought it was like the other pretty, show-pony trees that make flowers in the spring: "Sorry, I know I'm such a screw-up."

Anyway, the ash has to go, which involves: A) calling a company that sends over men with chain saws who shout things at each other. Or, B) taking it down myself. There's a certain mad attraction to the latter — the idea that I could actually wield an ax without losing a leg is amusing. My wife, seeing me with an ax, would find a cooler big enough to hold a shin, pack it with ice and dial 9 - 1 on her phone, waiting for the sudden scream to punch the last 1.

But what man doesn't want to fell a tree, and shout "TIMMMMBER"? (Without the question mark, of course.) When you think about it, you're shouting "wood." It's lumberjack shorthand for "Timber is falling; watch out!" — a phrase coined because by the time they'd finished the warning, the falling tree already pounded a few people into the ground like circus-tent pegs.

Whatever the origin, now we associate the word with falling trees. But only if you shout it. If you say, "Hey, timber" to someone, he either thinks you're talking about wood or he's named Tim and he really hates that nickname. But if you shout it, people think something is falling, slowly. (By the by, if you shout "timber" and "Geronimo," it means someone is jumping out of the thing that is falling. Or, at least, it should.)

If I did fell the tree, I'd have to saw it into disposable segments. Experience has taught me that the lawn-waste removal guys balk at branches of certain size. Last month a tree limb as thick as a Kraken tentacle dropped on the lawn, and I spent an hour in the hot sun sawing away, which really gives you renewed respect for Civil War field hospital surgeons. So maybe I'll pay someone to take it down.

Or, given the rash of crime in our neighborhood, maybe I'll just put a bike up in the branches. Whole thing, gone by morning.

james.lileks@startribune.com • 612-673-7858 • Twitter: @Lileks • facebook.com/james.lileks