This Red Oak in my front yard is in the prime of its life. My favorite tree, it’s been the home to many an Oriole family and shades my house all summer long. I saved it from Gypsy Moths in 2017 and 2018 only to have it hit by lightning in 2019. Aargh. Look again for the full-length trunk scar. The damage spreads with each year that goes by.
I talk to
this oak.
Yes, I do
in fact
hug it
sometimes.
But with every big wind event I wonder if I should take it down before it falls on us. The decision is not an easy one. Let’s visit another far more venerable Red Oak, one that alert Joshua’s Trust members will recognize.
Yes, this is the Ashford Oak, once recognized as the mightiest of its species in the whole world. I’m here on a bleak and windy deep-blue day in late spring and can’t help wanting to talk to this tree too. What would it say if we could converse?
The oak might affirm: “When the Declaration of Independence was signed in 1776, I was well over 100, wide, tall, and strong. Washington rode by me on his inaugural journey – one you may have read about here.” Dendrologists figure the oak is at least 375 years old, and some say easily 400 (maybe we should get a core drilled while we can). A century earlier than the Revolution, when our friend Joshua signed his last Will and Testament in 1675; the Ashford Oak was already here. “Remember Squanto? I was a little sprout, but I recall when the Pilgrims captured him in 1614. And when the first slave ship landed in 1619.” In fact, this beat-up tree in our locale has witnessed the entire history of America.
It could explain how once its woodland neighbors once included lofty chestnuts, limbs weighted down by Passenger Pigeons, then how it watched nearby fields being tilled with horse-drawn plows. A 1934 aerial photo still shows the open farmland that had surrounded it for centuries, enabling its immense horizontal spread. The tree might reveal how lightning strike(s) dethroned it, then how the New England Express, the 1938 hurricane, exacerbated the severe destruction that the 20th century inflicted. Would it dare revisit the 1981 Gypsy Moth infestation, an alien invasion like that in “War of the Worlds”?
Though it has lived through all, it might now thank us for our “Do Not Resuscitate” order. After acquiring the tree and its third of an acre in 1972, the Trust cabled it a few times and sprayed it too, attempting to prolong its life. We finally accepted the inevitable. “All Things Must Pass”, George Harrison sang – when the oak was about 340 years old. Though into my 70s now, I wouldn’t be surprised if it outlasts me. This is one tough tree.
The Ashford Oak, Quercus borealis maxima, was 97’ tall at its tallest, 32’ in circumference a foot from the ground, and had a branch spread of 135 feet. It could easily shade the whole Gampel Pavilion basketball court. Talk about a carbon sequestration organism! How much have you done, Red Oak, to save the world from the fires of the Industrial Revolution and the Digital one that continues?
Yes, it’s dying now. Don’t be sad; be amazed. Stop by to thank it. When I do again, I’ll see if I can find an acorn, bring it home – and plant it hopefully and reverently. I may need another oak soon.
Happy Earth Day! George Jacobi
Thanks, George, for yet another terrific essay that warms my soul.
Have passed by many times, and each time, it requires that I breath deeply and gratefully. Beautiful old being.
I recently finished Finding the Mother Tree. So this article is conveniently timed. Thanks
Thank you George. Every time I drive by I see a little prayer for the tree.
Wisdom for all of us. Thank you, George.
Another splendid essay, George. Your article puts in historical context the majesty of these beings we take for granted every day. I will visit the Ashford Oak again soon.
Thank you
Another touching story, George. This one a great eulogy to an organism that outlived all its contemporaries. Now it’s time is come, we just watch, without real sadness, as it slowly fades, dignity still intact.