Story by Owen Hou
News Editor

I have had a large oak tree in my backyard for more than a decade of my 16-year life. For over 10 years, it towered over my backyard, keeping everything under it cool and shaded. For over 10 years, it was always there, sitting right outside the sliding glass doors of the living room. And for 10 years, it was almost a part of my family, enduring through struggle and success. However, on Friday, Sept. 17, that all changed.

See, my neighbor had been plotting to get rid of the tree for nearly four years, caught in the anxious delusion that the tree would fall on her home. And despite the words of multiple arborists who could almost guarantee no harm would befall her, she was unswayed. Through that small chance of danger, she threatened to press charges, and despite the best efforts of my parents over the years, her position as a Harvard-educated lawyer proved too difficult to overcome.

I’m not just writing to talk about my tree, however. From this unfortunate ordeal, I learned a valuable lesson that tends to hide in plain sight. Following the tree’s fall, I was reflecting on how much I had really cared about it throughout our time. And honestly, I had never really, truly appreciated it, aside from when there was the threat of it getting destroyed. It was always just another part of the house, an extension of the backyard. However, when that seemingly minor part of my childhood was threatened to be taken away, I thought of everything I could do to protect it. In fact, in the days preceding the tree’s execution, I considered reaching out to conservation organizations, racked my head and interrogated Gemini on ways to save the tree, and even seriously thought of tying myself to the trunk to keep it whole.

It has really hit me that something as constant as this tree could be taken in an instant. Things like childhood houses, pets, friends and even family members are not guaranteed forever. And despite the fact we may talk, interact with, or even be annoyed by them on a regular basis, these beloved connections should be cherished while they are still here.

Ultimately, I could not save the tree. I ended up spending around three hours documenting, talking to, and just embracing it. It was sad knowing that it would not be the same the next day, but I just tried to make the most of the time I had left. I would be lying if I said I did not regret spending less time with the tree than I could have, or if I felt no sadness over the many times I scrolled or stayed inside over spending time with the tree. Now, all that remains of it are memories, a stump, and some lumber I saved.

I also have one other thing however: a lesson. From losing something so precious, I have realized the importance of enjoying everything around me, whether its people, settings, or even plants. And I hope that from my arborous anecdote, people will realize the value of everything around them, and how they, too, should enjoy the consistent parts of their lives before they fade away.