Old Man Bradford is dead.

I call him “Old Man,” but he was only 36. He looked like an old man, though — gnarled and pock-marked. Really, he was a monster.

Old Man Bradford never should have come into this world. He wasn’t created by the Lord. He was concocted by a man — a well-meaning scientist. Like Frankenstein’s monster, this creation didn’t turn out good.

Old Man Bradford stood in my front yard for as long as I’ve lived here, in a quiet, wooded neighborhood in Easley. He stood there for 10 years before we bought the house.

I’m not sure how tall he was, but he was much taller than most. He measured 22 inches in diameter and boasted a girth of 67 inches. He was a big boy!

I hope you’ve guessed by now that I’m talking about my Bradford pear tree, whose kind has become the scourge of the Western hemisphere,

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