Oak

Oak
This is the oak tree I've known my whole life, still standing in the back yard of my parents' home. I thought about the angle of trying to capture the whole tree, but soon realized that if I got the whole tree I'd catch some of the less photogenic side areas, and also not utilize the right light. So I took this shot, almost lying prone underneath it. Somehow this seems to capture it about right - a view of just a portion of it, looking straight up. My sense of things is that my views from this close of the old oak are now coming to an end, so this is how I'll remember it. I spent so many afternoons and evenings under its spreading branches: Pictures under it for my first day of school, my last day before graduation, prom pictures in between. I carried our son to see his grandparents here, and later brought our granddaughters along the same walk to see their great-grandparents. I skinned my knees under this oak, shot a million and one hoops under it, had a few thousand laughs under it, and wrestled with goodbyes under it.

While this is only a partial view of the massive, spreading, spacious monarch, somehow that fits it best. We seem to remember better when we focus on the one specific view of life rather than the massive overall picture. This view may be a little skewed and quirky, and that's fine for a last view. I'd like to remember it rough barked, the sweeping curve of the limb curling up to a clear blue, Southern Oregon autumn morning sky.

As I carried away items from the house passed down to me, I thought of the windchime we had purchased for my parents while they were alive, the chime still hanging in the tree. I thought for a moment about taking it with me, and then I thought, no, I will leave it here. Even in my absence, I'd like to think that the old oak still hears the ringing tones we brought it then, and the tones I'd like it to hear forever.