The rebel in me.

I went to City Hall tonight. I had to meet with City Council because I was a citizen of interest. Butterflies were bouncing violently around my insides. My husband held my hand.

When we sat down, we were given an agenda. There was my name--and my crime. Though it was in the same font, size, and color as the rest of the agenda, I felt like it was in neon lights. It tattled, "Natalie Nelson planted six trees in the right of way."

"Oh, sure," my husband whispered. "When you put it that way. . ."

I'm with George McFly; I was never good at confrontation. I take zero risks. I always obey. I hate the feeling of being under scrutiny. I never want to inspire disappointment or criticism. Accordingly, I chose my husband to be our spokesperson for the night.

And me, personally? I just wanted to run and hide and forget all about my long love affair with trees.

But really, how could I not love a Prunus cerasifera, no matter what its variety? Those abundant pink blossoms in the spring, that perfect canopy, those lush purple leaves in the summer, the lack of messy fruit. . . (sigh!)I just love the whole tree, bark to branches! And when I had the chance to plant six of them and effectively cut out the view of the "house" just north of me, I had to take it.

When the local nursery came this morning to (finally!) plant my trees, I was ecstatic. When they stopped midway, I knew something was up. When I was told we needed to have the city's blessing before we planted those trees, my heart sank. When I saw the nursery team burying those trees anyway, I sent my husband out to tell them to hold off until we got the final word. And when they continued to plant those trees, I knew it would come back to bite me.

Our city's council chambers is an unassuming, outdated, forgettable room. The members of the city council are about the same--average looking people from varied walks of life whom you would probably just walk right on by without noticing if you passed them on Main Street. But staring down at me from their raised podium at the front of the room, my neighbors transformed into seven giant bulldozers with the ability to uproot my arboreal dreams with one bored, "Nay".

The ceremony of the whole meeting caught me completely off guard--someone reading minutes, another making motions, another seconding the motions, the whole council giving their, "Aye" in unison, and the mayor asking for any opposed. It was all acted out with the utmost decorum and formality. I haven't been in that formal a setting since. . .well, never.

I sized up the panel. Who would be my biggest opponent? Who had the loudest voice and the hardest questions? Who saw only a tired, blonde woman without any fight in her? Would the only woman on the council be my enemy or ally? My apprehension grew. I should have done my homework! I should have found out where these people live and delivered fresh cinnamon rolls this morning.

And then, horror of horrors, Mayor moved our tree issue to the top of the business list, suggested I be the spokesperson, and called me to come to the stand at the front of the room. I immediately panicked. I seriously considered running from the room, retrieving my trusty spade, and digging up those fifteen foot beauties as penance for my tree hugging ways.

Willing my feet to make the walk forward, I felt my face redden. I darted terror-stricken glances back to my husband. I jammed my hands deep into my winter coat pockets; my fingers nervously twisted a piece of lint. I wished for a meteor to crash to the earth and abruptly end the meeting.

When I got to the stand, I was a deer in headlights. The room was totally silent. The council's fourteen eyes glared down at me. I gulped.

And then, miracle of miracles, I found my voice and told the truth.

"Your Honor, this is the most rebellious thing I've ever done."

The man sitting in the middle of the council panel snorted. The mayor smiled wide. The woman on the end laughed out loud. The rest of the room chuckled. I forced myself to smile back and opened myself up to be shot down dead.

But it never happened.

Sure, there were some close calls. Like, when the woman pointed out that the trees were already planted while she gave me a , "Tsk, tsk, tsk!" look. Or, when a man sitting on the side of the room started to list his concerns about my insurrectionary trees. And best of all, when at the prompting of my husband, I sprung the issue of expanding our driveway on a now very flustered mayor. Those were really nothing more than near misses.

Because in the end, we get to keep our trees--if we attach some document to the house deed so the next owner knows the parameters of the trees in the right of way. No big thing.

But, there might be something to this rebellious life after all. My fire for the insurgent life has been ignited.

Tomorrow, I think I'll put on some bright red lipstick and put a letter in the mailbox without lifting up the little red flag. Then, I'll buy a bullet bike and some leather pants. And then. . .who knows what else I'll do?

I've never been this rebellious before.