Red Oak Trees

The brownish-red leaves of the fall red oak are the most stubborn of the forest canopy.  They are the last to let go, and in the Celtic tradition were said to hold back the winter. No matter how diligent my father is about getting the leaves off the lawn, the oaks will wait for the first snows to give in to the season. There are very few oaks on our land, and the ones we have, we cherish for their acorns, which draw in wildlife, and their tenacious beauty.

The red oak has many uses in the North Country, from high-end hardwood lumber to long-burning firewood. The tannins produced by oaks are an important ingredient in leather working. Once processed, the acorns are edible after the tannic acid they contain is leeched away with boiling water or a baking soda/water soak (look online for the process). The nuts are filled with B-vitamins, protein, and are a complex carbohydrate that is helpful for those struggling with diabetes. Medicinally, the acorns are used to ease stomach pains, diarrhea, and other intestinal complaints. The bark and inner bark of oaks, when properly prepared, combats mouth sores, coughing, asthma and can be used on the skin to sooth rashes. 

In mythology, the oak was sacred to Zeus as well as Thor and the Dagda.  Because they were often the oldest and largest trees of the forest, they frequently received lightning strikes, which connected them to the gods of storms. The word “druid” in the Celtic tradition can be translated as “men of the oak”.  Druids frequently harvested mistletoe from the trees, an important piece of their faith and lore, and were said to worship in groves of oaks. In Rome, crowns of oak leaves were presented to victors in both games and battle. Even today, the United States Marine Corp, Army and Air Force use a golden oak leaf to designate the rank of major, pointing to this ancient symbol of leadership and bravery. 

Northern Michigan has unfortunately been hit hard by oak wilt, and in the forest where I grew up, the standing skeletons of enormous old oaks stand brooding and dark among the pines. My own childhood yard once boasted over ten of these giants, a few with girths that would take two or three grown men to reach around.  My 4-H sign was posted on one grand tree in the corner of the property—when it fell during a windstorm, it laid itself down perfectly across the yard, sparing powerlines, a neighbor’s house and my parent’s home. The last of the truly huge oaks gave into the wilt two summers ago.  I still look at the space left behind, like an empty chair at the Thanksgiving table. The disease passes from root system to root system, but also is spread by sap-eating beetles.  Because damage to the tree or root system creates open wounds that draw the beetles and increase the speed of the fungus infestation, it’s best to cut down infected trees and their neighbors (even if they appear healthy) during their dormant period.  This helps slow the transmission of the disease.

The loss of the trees in my parent’s yard has been difficult, a reminder that all things must eventually fail and die, even trees that I fully expected would outlive me. Yet, the open space created is also full of possibility—sunlight and well-drained soil welcome new apple trees and an American Chestnut we started from a seedling over four years ago.  The forest beyond is now more visible, and the great chore of cleaning up the fallen leaves has lessened considerably. In the chipped area of one stump, a few new oak saplings have sprouted up, and I smile when I see them—life finding a way.

Yes, I miss their presence,

the way summer light slipped and shimmered on the cut grass,

framed by deeper shadows;

the carpet of acorns strewn about in the fall,

their little brown caps scaled like fishes;

the intricate weave of branch and snow and sky in winter.

They anchored me to a place,

intimated a timelessness,

and reminded me,

as summer leaves paled and fell, sickly,

all Being is set to a larger rhythm of rising

and falling,

taking no heed of season

or finite relationship.

Still,

I captured a lattice of branches as the oak tree died,

stored the image on a cloud drive,

and one day I will warp my loom

weaving it with browns and greens and purples,

brilliant blue sky,

re-membering.