When I was a child, a large, perfectly shaped oak tree provided shade to our back yard, acorns for the squirrels, and lots of exercise for us in the autumn days when it released its giant load of leaves. My father and I spent many hours collecting and disposing of its leafy bounty. It was one of those fixtures you assume will always be there, because it has always been.
The oak stood at the edge of the steep slope that extended many feet from our grassy yard down to the lake below. Left wild due to its steepness, the slope was covered with choke cherry bushes that protected the bare earth with their root system and provided a bright green canopy from the yard cascading down to the lake. The bushes hosted tiny red berries each fall, that, if I took the time to collect, my mother would make into delicious jelly. Typically, I was in a race with the birds to see who would get them first. Even when ripe, they were very bitter, making me wonder about the birds’ palate, for they did not have a mother to add sugar and cook them thoroughly before making them into jelly.
The oak stood like a sentinel watching over its domain of unbroken space extending two miles to the other side of the lake. Unlike other trees in the neighborhood, its lowest branches were high above the ground, making it somewhat aloof to a youngster—something to be enjoyed from a distance. It felt expansive and impenetrable.
Then, one summer afternoon as I played in the shade of the tree, a ferocious storm came rolling across the lake, churning up the water into giant waves capped with froth. We were in for a big one.
I headed for the safety of the house. As usual, the trees bent and waved wildly when the storm hit. It was always both an exciting and terrifying experience. But this storm changed my young life forever. To my horror, the oak broke! A terrible cracking sound was instantly followed by half of the crown of the tree splitting off, crashing down to earth, flattening the flagpole we had recently placed next to it.
Once the storm was gone, we assessed the damage. It was true. The oak was no longer stately; it had been destroyed. Apparently, it had not been as strong as it appeared. There was a gaping hole in the portion of the main trunk now exposed. It had gone from a thing of perfect symmetry, exuding a sense of dignity, to a thing that was, well, pretty darn ugly.
As the oak was visible from the dining room, often in my early teen years, I would hear my father say, “I need to cut the rest of it down. It just looks bad.” He was right; it did look bad. As with most fathers, however, he was a busy guy. The ugliness remained for years.
Then the day came when I determined that, as a surprise, I would help my father with addressing this task he never seemed to be able to get to.
I knew he would be both relieved and happy that his to-do list was one item shorter. So, I got out the tallest ladder we owned, along with a bow saw, and while both of my parents were away one summer day, I ascended to heights I had never dreamed of climbing as a child.
With all my adolescent strength, I went at it, cutting relentlessly until all the remaining branches were down. Then feeling quite proud of my efforts, I went a step further and cut all the branches into pieces, separating the larger ones into a stack of logs and the thin branches into an organized pile. I had done it! He would be very pleased.
It was difficult waiting until my father got home. It was the first time I had really done something this big. I hadn’t even been asked. I was swelling with my own pride of accomplishment. Even harder was waiting until he looked out the dining room window to discover my efforts on his own.
I wanted to see the full impact of the surprise on his face.
Well, I did see the surprise when he saw what I had done, but it was not the look I expected. It was more like he had just seen something horrific. A thing of disgust.
“Who cut down the oak tree?!” thundered from his lips. I was in shock. What was happening? He looked at me with anger filling his face. “Did you do that?” I could only cringe and say, “Yes, I thought you wanted it down.” I suddenly was faced with the fact he had changed his mind. Apparently, he had grown used to the ugliness. Who knew? Certainly not me.
All my expectations of praise turned into gut-wrenching agony. I could not undo what I had done. His oak tree was gone.
Unable to face his anger any longer, I fled. My only thought was escape. He called after me as I ran for the garage and my bicycle. I needed to go away…maybe never come back! I was very confused…hurting…crying…
Then, as I accelerated down the street, his booming voice commanded, “Danny! Stop! Come back now!”
What could I do? My only aim had been to please him, but I guess that wasn’t going to happen. Now, in an act of obedience to my father, I slowly swung the bike in an arc and headed home.
The remainder of the story is actually a blur. I know we both made awkward attempts at explaining our side of what had just happened, and we did hug, eventually.
That was fifty years ago, but the tears still flow when I remember that day. It is hard when you try your best, but your best is misunderstood or simply does not accomplish what you intended. And when things that you always assume will be there, are no longer, you realize this life is for a season.
Now my mother and father have gone on. I look forward to the day when we can love each other without incurring or inducing pain and when the oaks will not be broken.
Dan Hotek
At 62, I am starting to see life from “the other end.” It has been an interesting journey getting here.
After 40 years of marriage, participating in the launching of 9 amazing children, performing structural engineering on many projects in the United States and around the globe, my wife, Lori, and I are enjoying life together in the Northern Shenandoah Valley.
2 Responses
This is beautiful. The words, the story, and the meaning. It brought me to tears. But they are tears of understanding. ❤️
Tears! Beautifully written. =/