Trees that almost seemed like members of the family have been victims of our historic winter weather, and Elizabeth Fishel now contemplates the huge space where her live oak once stood.
On the stormy first afternoon of spring, winds howling, I was on the phone in my kitchen when a green bushy comet seemed to whir past the window at lightning speed. “I have to go!” I yelled into my cell while running to watch the last hurrah of our beloved California live oak come roaring downhill from where it had stood for 60 years in our side yard. I’d spent half my life staring at this noble tree, as the windows over my desk and the kitchen sink gaze straight at it. The oak was not only the symbol of the town where my husband and I had lived for 40 years, but also the focal point of our garden and a touchstone for our lives.