Essay: carey shreve
This Oak and Me…
“This oak tree and me, we're made of the same stuff."
--Carl Sagan
My mother’s father, Varyl Taylor, was my childhood champion; he loved me unabashed and I knew it. He’d been a redhead in his youth, as was I, but he’d lost all of his hair following a serious car accident when he was in his twenties. He never adjusted to being bald even later in life – he’d coveted his red hair as a badge of his bravado, so he took a particular pleasure in teasing me – mercilessly - about my very bright and curly red hair. My retort was to point out – also mercilessly - that at least, I still had hair, as I’d affectionately rub the top of his shiny smooth and freckled scalp. This frequent exchange was a palpable salve of (unspoken) love that soothed my insecure child’s soul.
Grandpa and Grandma Taylor had a cottage in northern Michigan on a mid-sized inland lake, and every summer I spent one or two “two-week vacations” with them. Their simple cottage was set deep in the woods, about 300 yards from the water, and was devoid of the comforts of home my parents deemed necessary to civilized life, which meant they stayed away from the cottage. The furniture was mismatched hand-me-downs and curbside castaways, and the small bathroom contained only a toilet and a sink – bathing was done in the lake. Near the door leading out to the lake, hung the only wall décor in the cottage; it was a thick piece of heavily lacquered tree bark with a short poem burned into the wood along with the outline of a massive oak tree and two acorn halves glued on it. It said:
I am a little Acorn.
As plain as you can see.
But remember that the mighty oak
Was once a Nut like me.
One bedroom was occupied by my grandparents and the other smaller bedroom was mine – with a rickety double bed covered with quilts made by my great-grandmother and an old wooden dresser. Other than a fireplace in the main room, the cottage had no heating system and no insulation, so chilly mornings rendered the bedrooms and rough wooden floors almost painfully cold on bare feet. I loved waking up buried in quilts with the bracing air chilling my cheeks and nose, the smell of woodsmoke drifting in from the main room as Grandpa Taylor had already started a fire.
Life at the cottage revolved around being outside – exploring the woods, fishing from the rowboat, swimming, and cooking over the open fire pit, most of which was done with mostly Grandpa. Grandma Taylor liked being indoors – Grandpa had hooked up an antenna to the roof of the cabin so Grandma could watch her daily shows – Guiding Light, As the World Turns - while she puttered around inside the cottage. She’d deliver lunch to the picnic table set under a huge oak by the lake shore, sometimes joining us while we ate sandwiches and chips, but more often heading back into the cottage. While I loved Grandma Taylor, I especially cherished my time alone with Grandpa Taylor. He knew everything about outdoor life and after decades of working on the assembly line at the Buick plant in Flint, he fully appreciated and savored the time he was at the lake following his retirement. I shared his passion for being outside – I’d always favored it over being inside any building, and as a self-avowed “tomboy” wanted nothing more than to learn everything Grandpa Taylor knew about the natural world.
And, he was more than happy to teach me. I learned where to dig for fat worms and how to thread them, wiggling, on to the sharp fishhooks before tossing the line over the edge of the rowboat. I learned about different trees and plants, birds and insects, and how to follow the deer and small animal tracks throughout the woods. But, of all the different elements in the woods, Grandpa Taylor’s favorite subject was oak trees. He loved comparing the oak to humans; how we as humans could learn to live our lives like an oak tree. He had me stand next to the largest oak on his property during heavy wind – my small hand pressed against the gnarled bark, so that I could feel that, even though the oak was twice, three times as wide as me, it still moved with the wind rather than fighting against it. He loved how the bark reflected the tree’s struggles and the scarred roughness showed strength and resilience, not defeat. The stumps where oaks had been cut down were lessons in longevity as Grandpa would count the rings reverently. And, frequently, as we were pondering an oak, Grandpa Taylor would ruffle my bright hair, telling me that while I was only a “nut”, his favorite nut, I’d end up being a mighty oak myself. It was the purest “I love you” I’d ever heard.
As I moved through childhood and into adolescence, my visits to the cottage continued every summer; each year I’d return full of childlike curiosity, barefoot and dirty (until my lake bath before bed), and unconcerned with anything other than being outside with Grandpa. I fantasized that when I “grew up”, I’d move to the cottage and spend my life caring for my grandparents, their cottage, and their perfect slice of the planet.
Sadly, Grandpa Taylor died when I was in my early teens. His death was due to a complication from surgery, and my grief at losing him was immense. Gone was the unconditional love and acceptance. Gone was seeing his face light up whenever he saw me. Gone was the man who’d embodied a human oak tree to me. Grandma Taylor and I traveled to the cottage the first two summers after his death for a two-week stay, but it wasn’t the same for her or for me, and the cottage was sold at the end of the second summer without him. Grandma didn’t keep a single item from the cottage when she sold it; the new owners inherited the furniture, all of the kitchen gear, the bedding, including the family quilts, and the oak and acorn plaque on the wall.
It wasn’t until I was navigating a divorce at the age of 50 that I found myself again thinking about acorns and oak trees. Even though I’d weathered other personal storms in life, the divorce felt overwhelming as I was the one who’d initiated it, which meant I was uprooting a family of four from life as we’d known it. My guilt was palpable and I was second-guessing every decision I’d made. I’d started spending a lot of time walking in one of our county parks to relieve my stress, and one day took a break under a huge oak. As I rested my back against the bark, I felt a gradual warmth creeping into my spine. The ground was littered with acorns, and as I picked one up, I felt Grandpa Taylor sitting next to me, his voice reminding me that the oak was showing me the way.
It was the beginning of a shift in my thinking. I made an effort to live like an oak – to bend when needed, to embrace my strength, and to trust my inner voice. As a tangible reminder, I had an oak leaf and acorn tattooed on the left side of my upper back – Grandpa Taylor and I both being left-handed. I wanted a permanent connection to the nut I’d been and the tree I was becoming.
Now, at the age of sixty-six, my exterior has weathered into well-etched bark and my branches extend out into a wide arc, welcoming life’s lessons. I bend when the winds grow fierce and come back into my glory each spring when the sun and warmth return. I was outside with my granddaughter, Maddi, a few days ago, and we stopped at an oak tree to marvel at its girth and span. We stood with the palms of our hands pressed firmly against the bark, and I asked Maddi if she could feel the oak’s pulse. After a moment of thought, she replied, yes. “But who was in there?”, she asked. At five, Maddi wants to understand death, so we agreed that when those we love die, they move into an oak, much like Grandma Willow had in Disney’s Pocahontas. That is surely where I find Grandpa Taylor. And, it will surely be where Maddi will find me once I’ve taken up my final residence there. My metamorphosis into a mighty oak will be complete.
about the writer: carey shreve
Carey recently sold her home in the woods to move into a second-floor apartment (now her nest) in the village of Paw Paw, Michigan. This has made her life infinitely simpler, and every window looks out on a variety of trees. She divides her time between working with Special Education young adults, supporting other women in recovery (which in turn supports her!), and spending time with her granddaughter, Maddi, who is wise in the ways only an almost five-year old can be. Carey plans to retire within the next few years and is looking forward to the adventures that transition will bring.
