For years unknown, the oak tree had been there, half-way up the hillside, all alone in the open pasture. It stood majestically throughout every season and had become a symbol of life and strength to my family. Countless hours were spent under its massive branches throughout the generations. During the summer months, I sought the coolness of its shade and in the wintertime, huddled close to the trunk awaiting a turn on the sled, and sometimes I just slipped away from the others to commune with God under the tree.
One morning, I awoke to thunder, as the white lace curtains covering my windows billowed frantically with gusts of wind announcing the storm. The extreme movement of curtains always triggered fear within me, so I scrambled out of the creaky old bed and slammed the windows shut.
Since I never liked being alone during a storm, I hurried downstairs and joined my mother in the kitchen. She greeted me with a reassuring hug and kiss, but her loving touch did little to ease my fear. I picked up the cat and moved to the screen door as I stood watching the clouds racing across the sky, growing darker and darker. The atmosphere was hot and heavy. Then suddenly, the nervous tension was broken by a bright flash of lightning and simultaneous crack of thunder. My attention turned toward the lone oak tree, the branches swaying with the wind. I admired its strength to withstand the fury of storms.
Suddenly, I heard a roar in the distance, which I thought was a hard rain approaching, but within seconds I realized that it was the wind! The trees on the nearby hillsides were bending over, and the sound of them snapping and crashing to the ground was terrifying. I stood frozen in the doorway until I heard my father shouting for us to get into the basement as he and our dog ran from the workshop. With a final glance out the screen door, I prayed that the oak tree could hold on.
The next few minutes seemed like an eternity to me in the dark, damp basement. No one spoke a word as we sat together awaiting the return of the calm. Finally, silence. Then we nervously climbed the steps, closely at each other’s heels, not knowing what to expect.
I was the last one out of the basement, but the first one out the door. There was debris everywhere, but the buildings were intact. Then I shifted my gaze toward our mighty oak…now horizontal on the hillside. Falling to my knees, I began to sob. I felt my father’s loving hand upon my shoulder, and through his own choked-up voice, he told me, “If crying would stand it back up, I would cry too.”
Then he promised that we would build treasures from its wood to keep forever. He gently wiped away my tears with his strong hands and told me not to cry. As I clutched his hand, both Mom and Dad began pointing out the things that God had protected. We were safe, including the dog and cat. The limbs in the driveway landed behind the vehicles with only a few fragile tips touching the side of a car. Then I saw my flower bed of lilies that were just beginning to bloom. It was covered with several limbs and I imagined the lilies crushed. We carefully lifted the branches to discover that all were spared except for one bloom and two individual petals. I began to shed grateful tears as I looked toward heaven realizing that God loved me, for He protected them. These surviving flowers were like a rainbow promising that all would be okay.
Several days later, my uncle came to visit. He was older than my father, thinner and darker, but just as kind and patient. Together they worked cutting up the oak tree, under which they had played and rested throughout their lives. I brought drinks and sat with them on the massive trunk while they took a break. I listened as my father shared his plan to make treasures from the wood so the tree would always remain with us, only in a different form. Uncle Luke asked me what kind of treasure I wanted. I quickly replied that I needed a chest of drawers. They smiled at me, then at each other, and shooed me along so they could continue with their work.
Eventually, the pieces for my chest of drawers had been shaped, stained and fitted together. I entered the workshop and my father said that I could help attach the handles, which was the final touch for my piece. With the last turn of the screwdriver, my chest of drawers was complete, and we carried it upstairs to my bedroom. It fit perfectly between the two windows. Standing four and a half feet high, three feet wide and two feet deep, with three drawers which, when opened, emitted a very unique aroma that spoke to my soul.
I carefully chose items and placed them meticulously within each drawer. When I had finished, I stepped to the other side of the room and admired my treasure. Then I walked to the window on the left and peered toward the distant hillside, as a gentle wind lifted my long red curls aside. I felt sad about the empty space in the pasture but content that the empty space inside my room was now filled.
“That was sixty years ago,” I explained to my granddaughter, as I told her my story. “What were you looking in the drawer for anyway?”
After some hesitation, she replied, “Whenever I come here, I like to open these drawers and smell the wood. They don’t smell like any other.”
“Awe, Sadie, I have always noticed that too. I remember when we walked out to the tree for the first time after the storm. The aroma from the broken branches permeated the area offering up that unique, sweet freshness to the air. I collected several pieces of the splintered wood and made a bunch of crosses, like the one on the porch. I think that aroma is the Treasure Tree’s essence. It remains inside these drawers and within all of the other treasures we made from it to this day.”
“Now the chest is even more special, Mamaw, since you told me the story.”
I choked up and smiled through damp eyes, now knowing to whom I will pass the treasure of the tree on to… when it is time.
Rhonda Logan Bailey, writer and photographer
9.3.26
