The Angel of Death, Tree Division, dropped by our house this week and condemned an elm to stumphood. The orange band of doom. When you see it, you're stunned. You know there's no appeal. But you go through all the stages anyway.

Denial: There's nothing wrong with the tree! It's perfectly fine! Maybe it's just the hot weather. The trees are stressed, I hear. Really stressed. If they weren't rooted down, they'd be pacing the boulevard chewing the tips of their branches. I'll water it. You'll see.

Second stage: Bargaining. OK. Look. We can settle this like reasonable people. How about you take those two trees over there, the scraggly ones that drops junk on the lawn every spring? Take those. I think they have warrants, too.

Then anger: Why this one and not the ugly one across the street? It doesn't have any leaves, it has no character, it has these strange stubby, silver branches on the side. What? It's a telephone pole? Oh.

Finally, acceptance. There's nothing you can do. Well, you could wire up some speakers in the branches, wait for the crew to come out, then shriek into a microphone when you see them start to cut. That could work. But then the foreman would say, "Boys, we got a screamer here," and they'd put in earplugs and get on with it. I suppose they're desensitized to it by now.

You understand why they have to take it down: to prevent the spread of Dutch elm. Eventually every elm tree in the city will be gone in the case of preventing Dutch elm, except one. It will get hit by lightning and explode, and they can disband the Dutch elm brigade and move on to saving the last ash tree, located under glass behind an electrified fence.

If you wondering about the legal basis for hauling off a sick tree, the city has the power to condemn elms based on MPRB Ordinances Chapter 11, which defines the trees as a "public nuisance." As if you could flag down a cop and say, "Officer, this tree is bothering me." The city will replace the public nuisance at no cost, which is like hauling off a drunk and putting a sober citizen in his place. We can plant our own if we wish. I'm tempted to replace it with a healthy 90-year old elm that looks identical, just to keep the tree inspectors on their toes. When they drive by and look confused -- didn't we just take that down? -- I'll wave and hold up a can of Miracle-Gro and a vial of Viagra.

I have a photo from the house's early days, the tree's baby picture. A tender slender sapling, full of hopes and dreams, on the cusp of treehood. That was 1920 or so, which means it endured over 13 generations of dogs. (Makes you wonder if a dog will irrigate it the day before it's chopped down, come by the next day, see the stump, and think: I HAVE THE POWER.) People always say, "That tree was around during the Depression, World War II, the Korean War, the Ford administration and the entire run of 'L.A. Law," and that's true, but it's not like it's a survivor of the Battle of the Bulge. It's just old, like a Life magazine in the attic.

I'll be honest: It's not my favorite tree. There's something bony and indifferent about it. Not one of those gentle sheltering elms that bends over the street and offers the cool boon of shade to the citizens below; it has a scant top, like a piece of broccoli. Still, you hate to lose any tree, and elms are precious. A few years ago four enormous elms that had been growing in my neighborhood since the Woodrow Wilson administration were cut down and the houses suddenly looked naked, like brothel patrons standing around outside when the place suddenly caught fire. There's not a day I pass the corner without remembering what we lost.

On the other hand, it's a sunny corner now. The new people who moved in after the elms went down know nothing else. We'll leave the neighborhood someday, and whoever takes our place won't know what we lost. But even if you're a newcomer, you can tell. Sometimes you'll be walking down the sidewalk, and see a semicircle cut into the concrete, a sign of a friendly old elm that held down this spot when they poured the walk. Even in absentia, some things are still with us.

jlileks@startribune.com • 612-673-7858 More daily at www.startribune.com/popcrush.