It is the most magnificent oak tree I have ever seen.
On the route from my home to the gym is a homestead featuring a wooden house painted yellow with a very old brick fireplace. Directly in front of the house is a stump at least nine feet in diameter. I want to stop each time I see it to count the rings and mourn its passing.
A tree’s rings are like wrinkles, they not only tell age but also give evidence of times of abundance and struggle. If the rings are close together it may indicate a period of drought. Similar to how the wrinkles on our foreheads may indicate stress.
The stump’s still thriving kin surround the house. At its northern flank stands a noble oak. Judging from my estimation from a moving vehicle, it seems to be as many as a hundred years old. Its limbs grow high and wide and reach down toward the road. I want to place my hands upon it. I want to smell its earthiness and notice its details. I want to watch how it dances with the wind and speaks through a storm. I want to place my ear upon its bark with the hope of hearing a breath. Like a father or sage, maybe it will tell me the secrets to being alright with all that I am and do.
A tree this old and elegant, without damage and prospering, gives me hope. In a county over two centuries old, it is the oldest I have seen. It is from the generation after that which fueled the Industrial Revolution. It survived when most others fell by way of the axe to fuel furnaces, make room for human priority, and build nearly everything. I want to preserve it like Mount Vernon and promise to add but never take anything from it.
Anthony Sadler 