This isn’t a historic moment but it’s certainly a memorable one. We had the coolest tree in our backyard growing up. Two thick branches were at just the right height that you could grab them and virtually walk up the trunk to sit in the tree, carefully avoiding the wicked end of a removed branch.
Since I’m sure my friend Karen would prefer I not use her real name, let’s call her Saren. One day Saren (she’s still in my life – at a minimum we gorge on red meat once a month – and everyone should have a sister-friend / friend-sister like this in their life) got her shorts hung up on the remains of that trimmed branch. You know, the ones from the late 70s that were terrycloth with white piping around the edge:
It required quick thinking on my part since this was an emergency situation and the solution obviously had to be no holds barred. (You can debate the various other options I may have had in the comments below but just let me tell my story.) So I went to the shed for the clipping shears.
All I really had to do was clip her shorts where they were hung up (and we had already agreed the shorts could be readily sacrificed). Unfortunately (for me; fortunately for Saren) my Dad looked out the window about the time I got the shears and came outside just in time to institute plan B. He lifted (show off) Saren off the branch/dastardly hook and returned the shears to the shed.
It was a cedar tree. You know, we’re in Texas here.