Of Acorns and Oaks

The beauty of this blog is that it's as erratic as its author. Nothing like skipping July, right? But why blog when you can garden? I admire and have great reverence for my garden writer colleagues who maintain a vigilant, unwavering presence in the blogosphere. But alas I lack the dedication to preach vociferously to what I know must be a small audience. A great deal stirs the listserves, at least in garden writing circles these days, about the opportunities of the future. Will they be there? What will they be? It seems that a paradigmatic issue surfaces regularly. What is the future of traditional communication mediums? The underlying tone of most of these discussions is gloomy and foreboding.

These technocratic discussions about Internet piracy, media literacy, and communication systems aside, the oaks here on my southwestern Iowa farm are putting on heavy loads of acorns bearing the full weight and might of their limbs it seems. Fuzzy, pokey, and spiny green golf balls hang patiently from every bough waiting until a layer of cells in the peduncle that holds them to that limb senesces and gives way to gravity. Tumble they will all over my patio, sidewalks, roof, and into anything with an open top; "marble city" as we call it around here. But as annoying as the biennial event may be, I have a resolute fondness for our aging stand of bur oaks. Their stoic presence goes on most days without mention or recognition, much as it has no doubt for the last 100 or so years many of them have stood here. What is about oaks that I find so inspiring? Years before a computer, the Internet, or even me, they've put on rings of wood, set acorns, and shed leaves ritualistically and programmatically. Not out of any sense of disregard mind you. They're just trees, living organisms performing a life function much as we do when we worry about our kids crossing the street alone or learning to drive for the first time.

So why on this most serene evening in August would I choose to write from my now acornless patio about oaks? If it's native wit to worry, I'd rather worry about stumbling and tripping on acorns then the strife of a digital age. By the way, don't tune in again soon. I might be picking acorns.