A large oak stands in front of the house that belonged to my parents. It is so tall and its limbs spread so wide that anyone standing under it during a rain is sheltered, as if by a giant umbrella.
The tree is old and has seen many changes. A busy street a few feet away was once a dirt lane. Riders on horses, families in buggies traveled the road and this oak was not the only one lining the road. Many other trees surrounded the oak in those days, trees taller and older than he. Sumac thickets sprang up here and there, wild rose bushes, honeysuckle vines, blackberries, crowded the lane.
One day a man cut some trees south of the oak and built a small house. A few more horses and wagons and riders came down the road. Rabbits and ‘possums, squirrels and groundhogs hid behind the oak and watched the goings on. A few years later, the small house was replaced by a larger one.
More trees were cut to make room for more buildings but somehow that oak escaped the ax and saw. It grew taller and sturdier, its limbs stretched out, sheltering wild creatures beneath it and many bird families and squirrels within. At times, when the moon sailed across a velvet sky and the wind shredded high-flying clouds, an owl came and sat in the oak.
Horses gave way to horseless carriages. Model T Fords and farm trucks clattered down the road in front of the tree. The occasional horseback rider became a rarity. More trees were cut, the road was widened and paved. Yet, the umbrella oak stood firm and strong, anchored to the ground with more than 150 years worth of roots.
The oak withstood countless storms and winds. Lesser trees toppled, due to nature or encroaching civilization, but the grand old tree remained.
Several families have come and gone in the white house beyond the front yard gate. The tree has seen the yard alive with activity. Cars, not horses and buggies any more, parked under the tree and in the driveway behind the house.
In drought, it survives because its roots run deep. When the weight of ice storms bring down other trees, the oak waits for the sun and keeps standing.
Sometimes, it sighs as wind stirs its branches but it keeps its secrets. Does it miss the old days? Does it yearn for the quiet of forest and friends? Or, is it content to be just what it is–a shelter and an inspiration–the historic umbrella tree?
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