Crunch Time
We can imagine fifty thousand acorns hitting the ground in front and another fifty thousand more behind. A total of one hundred thousand acorns scattered across our parcel in the woods.
There is a more notable risk of twisting my ankle these days as I prowl around the property. At least it feels that way. The oak trees are shedding acorns by the bushel and the lawns, the driveway, in particular the narrow path to the pond, are thick with the little wooden stones that press up against the ball and heel of the foot and pitch and roll under the arch. The evidence is everywhere that it must be a mast year, the mysterious season every two or three years when oaks release acorns like a dog shaking water off its back.
A shallow dive into the interweb on the subject reveals that a huge oak tree can drop as many as ten thousand acorns on these occasions.
What means “huge?” Without turning around, swiveling my head only one-eighty, I count ten large oak trees. There are several more along the arc of rotation behind me. Are they huge? They are very big, at least. If one fell and hit the house we would be homeless. Hopefully no worse.
Discounting huge by half we can imagine fifty thousand acorns hitting the ground in front of me and another—who knows—fifty thousand more behind. A total of one hundred thousand acorns scattered across our parcel in the woods.
How many will grow into mature trees?
Among the first fifty thousand? Not one. Over a hundred species of animal are known to eat acorns and a solid portion live here. Deer, raccoons, possums, mice, voles, squirrels, chipmunks, turkeys, crows, woodpeckers. We share the same address. We will take out what they do not, with the lawnmower or by crushing them under our car tires or with garden clippers to preserve our pond view, giving room to our azaleas, blueberry bushes, and mountain laurels. The slaughter will be immense.
Behind me, it will be substantially the same, though there are portions of the property we have designated as untouchable, leaving it to nature. Within those confines—and I do mean confines—a few lucky acorns may eke out a future. May push past another upstart. May topple an older relative. May, after years, finally reach the sky.
Just a few, out of so many bright prospects.
I will not be here to see it. I envy those that will. The trees, that is. I envy the trees that will be around for another century, the oaks among them. Considering the odds, they deserve it: a lingering chance to catch the morning sun, the evening breezes, the squirrels tickling their skin, the birds that return year after year to raise their families.
What is it to remain in one place and experience that place over many years? Not like we do, mind you, always rushing about. Yes, I know many people have lived somewhere for years. But I ask what is it to be rooted to a place? To know that place only.
I drove by a house where I once lived and there was the tree I remembered in the front yard, grown to a commanding size, with limbs that extended over the rooftop. A different swing set was in the back. Different cars in the driveway. Different plants against the house. There was a new garage off one side. Indeed, the house was barely recognizable from the one we lived in. But I knew the tree, and I was drawn to the question would it know me? After all these years, if I had stepped out of the car and walked around to the curb, giving it a good look, removing my hat, exposing my balding head, holding my arms wide as if we might embrace as old friends, would it have known me? Would the sap in its veins have jumped, and its branches fluttered? Would it have gasped, Oh great mercy, look who’s here?
All the questions I would have had about the old neighborhood. All the answers it could have given. Should I not believe it would have known as much about the world from where it was, as I could have told it from where I had been? I had been gone forty years from that place and around many parts of the world. My experience spreads across a large canvas. Its experience runs deep as a well.
It is near time to walk across the lawn to the house, treading on acorns, to feed the dog. I move under the watchful eye of every rooted thing around me, which sees me swept along like last year’s leaves. I comment on their struggle. Perhaps they are sorry for my own. A wanderer. Without anchor. A type of gatherer. Such a lot of busyness mixed with noise. We come and we go, leaving footprints and maybe a few verses behind.
A poem, then, to close, but not mine. It is from a rooted friend.
Ode to an Acorn
By ChatGuru
In the forest's embrace, small and round,
The mighty acorn rests upon the ground.
A promise of strength, hidden within,
A tiny seed, where dreams begin.
From towering oaks to a sky so blue,
It holds the secret of life anew.
Nurtured by earth, kissed by the rain,
It grows with hope, breaking free from the plain.
In its shell, a future unfolds,
A tale of resilience, yet untold.
Patiently it waits, in winter's cold,
For the warmth of spring, it will behold.
With roots that anchor, deep and strong,
It stands tall, amidst nature's throng.
From a humble seed, a legacy so grand,
The acorn's journey, across the land.
So let us cherish, this small marvel we see,
The acorn's significance, for you and me.
In its humble form, there lies a power,
A reminder that from little, greatness can flower.