Share a few recent shots from your camera roll, no context needed.
Zoom in and to the right of the green box: 🦨
This might be my favorite prompt ever prompted! It’s hard not to give context, though.
Let’s just say fall has fallen. Summer flowers are still blooming even though the nights have become cool. The squirrels are getting fat for winter, and the smallest babies that were born in September are slowly getting big. I have visitors at night, and they live under my shed. They are small but mighty. Everyone fears them, even the fox. They are black and white and sassy all over. Normally I’m not too concerned about the size of the squirrels and with what they’re doing, but William, my Willow oak, is sick. I have written about William in other posts. He’s my 100 year-old, 80 foot oak tree next to my house. I was going to get him cabled to support his canopy and bifurcated trunk, but the third guy I had out to look at the tree informed me that the tree has got mushrooms on its bark and they’re not just at the base. I shouldn’t be surprised because I’ve lost two large limbs off of this tree in the most recent storms. One crashed into my patio table and broke it. The other one landed in my Japanese maple, but didn’t break the tree. Luckily, the carnage has missed the house, but one of the bifurcated trunks will take down my entire house as well as the neighbors’ house if – rather, when, not if, and that’s terrifying – it falls. This tree has been home to many animals over the 100-ish years, and the last bunch of late season, baby squirrels is still living in it. I’m hoping to get the tree cut down at the end of November. I am grieving William, even though I know it’s the best thing to do. As I said, fall has fallen (as well as large limbs). But at least it’s not dark at 4PM like when we have to turn the clocks back. Oh wait…😒
William is as majestic as ever this year. He’s probably taller than last year, but I can’t tell because he’s so tall, so…I don’t know. I was snapping some photos of my bleeding heart plant and this little squirrel became spooked by me. She’s young and she’s wary, which is a good thing, because the Cooper’s Hawk is around quite frequently, as is the fox. In any case, when she saw me, she decided to seek William out for shelter. I have many times sought out William for shelter and I have communed with him to get grounded. For it is definitely so that his roots reach as far down as his canopy reaches to the sky. To touch a tree that is at least 100 years old and is likely sustaining most of the trees in the neighborhood through its root system, is nothing short of magical. When I am feeling especially anxious and my vertigo is especially bad, I will lean on William and I feel better, at least for that moment.
Have a great weekend everyone, and if you need grounding, touch a tree. Talk to a tree. Trust me, it works. 
Oh, here’s the bleeding hearts. I had to cover them with a tent-like contraption for two nights straight because we had a freeze warning, but as you can see, it was worth it.
I wrote about William last fall. He has been doing his thing all winter, and he withstood a tornado. Although he did shed a few limbs, he seems unscathed overall.
This week William has decided to participate in the pollination of the entire neighborhood. The winds are a bit gusty, so William is trying to populate everything, basically. My next-door neighbor asked me today what kind of tree he is. I could tell she was annoyed by all of his spring activities – i.e. dropping seed pods. I told her he is a Willow Oak and many years ago, my mother thought her beloved Birch trees were dropping these pods, so she had them all cut down. It turns out, William was dropping the pods. My mother was upset about that for many years. She didn’t like William. William is a big boy, it would take a crane and many thousands of dollars to remove him. So William stays, and the bigger he gets, the more seeds drop. Everywhere. You can’t go outside without getting rained on by seed pods these days. They clog rain gutters, they form piles of tumbleweed looking things, and they get under your wiper blades. I think birds use them for their nests, though. But they can’t take a bath in the birdbath because it’s filled with William’s pods.
I was out front fussing with the clematis this morning when two (other) neighbors walked past and talked amongst themselves about these pods being everywhere. I didn’t say a word, except a good morning when the greeting was offered to me. I kept my eyes down and focused on my task. When I was done, I walked in my house and shook my hair. Twelve seed pods fell out. Thanks, William.
William’s seed podsThe man himself. If you look closely, you might be able to see him dropping seed pods like it’s a game – silly William
Oh – one more thing: for the past several years, there has been a toad living in my backyard. When I had all the English ivy eradicated last fall, I was worried that the toad might have been adversely affected. I am happy to report that Toady McToaderson is back and apparently in fine health. Today is the first day I have heard him singing his dulcet sounds to the lady toads. Welcome back, Toady.
Toady McToaderson, 2021, seen here next to ERJ II. He makes his home in this region, and he does *not* like his photo taken
There’s something about me you should know: I love trees. I believe the science that states trees communicate with each other through lengthy and entwined root systems deep underground, as well as through their branches and leaf canopies. Dying trees are fed sugar through their roots from other trees that know of their suffering. The forest is friendship and family.
But William, the towering Willow Oak adjacent to my home, does not live in a forest. Perhaps he started out in one, a hundred years ago, when he was a sapling – and before that, an acorn. But there’s no way to prove it.
As he is now, overseer of my home and its relatively small parcel of land, William has a few local friends. None are larger than he, but they are seemingly not intimated.
Oak trees are formidable, and they live long lives. William is an example of this – and yes, that’s his name, we have conferred. He asked for my name, of course. “It’s Amy,” I said.
Given his proximity to my dining room, health and sturdiness are important factors to know about William. “Great tree.” “Over one hundred years old. I’d love a tree like that on my property.” “Perfectly healthy.” Several tree specialists have said these exact words about my William. I imagine Wills puffing up and shaking his leaves in a show of bravado, but his leaves are eighty feet up and I can’t see what he’s doing with them.
And yes, I’ve decided William is a male. I’ve heard trees can be either/or, and William gives towering male protective vibes. He is over one hundred years old, after all. He’s a galant gentleman.
His trunk must measure fifteen to twenty feet in diameter (see photo above for William compared to the size of my foot). His visible root system grows just touching my house’s foundation – but before you become nervous about that, it just touches. The roots follow the line of the home in a parallel fashion, abutting, but never crossing. His well-established, strong roots running along the foundation of my home appears to be giving it a gentle but Herculean hug. He offers roots for when I feel rootless and ungrounded.
His rough bark reminds me that he is rough on the outside, but alive and doing important tree stuff on the inside. His green leaves of spring are a canopy of hope external (remembering that hope springs eternal), his brown leaves of fall are a yearly consternation to my home’s gutters, and are my shoes’ main nemesis. My welcome mat ignores the leaves completely, unfortunately. His acorns drop from up high, clanking the glass patio table. The acorns are large this year, which my mother always predicted meant a cold, snowy winter. We shall see. The squirrels have already begun to bury the acorns, and, if they remember the locations of burial, they will be well fed this winter.
When the invasive pest English Ivy threatened William’s trunk, I cut it away, furious. When it grew back and multiplied, I had it professionally removed. William seems pleased. He can show off his trunk again.
“It would take two hundred mile per hour winds to take down that tree,” a landscaper recently told me, staring up at William in awe. (He was the person who freed William of the ivy.) Fingers and limbs crossed that never happens. William is well-protected by my home in a sort of symbiotic relationship.
I woke this morning to see William in his usual place, with the sound of acorns dropping now and again. He seems peaceful and ready to get on with the cooler fall weather. He’s already preparing for spring. After visiting William, my mind and then my feet trailed to my front yard, where my surprise Eastern Redbud grows. Her name is Clementine, and she has a magnificent story to tell.
