On Change, Trees, and the Southern Way

Recently, a small firestorm broke out over some changes made to an iconic road on St. Helena Island. As was their right, property owners cleared some underbrush and a dead water oak tree from the avenue leading to Coffin Point Plantation. But rumor had it that it wasn't a dead water oak tree, but was actually a live oak tree. 

Not surprisingly, a great deal of back and forth was found on Facebook and other social media sites. Some defended the property owner's rights. Some tried to set the facts straight. Many were simply outraged at the very thought of it. From the tone of some of the comments, one worried whether or not a meeting to gather torches and pitchforks might be held.

I'm not really concerned with the politics, codes, legality, etc. of the act. I assume the property owners did what they did for good reason and, given it's their land, well it's kind of their business. 

But what did fascinate me (although it didn't surprise me) was the ardor over the whole thing. Most of the discussion was being held between people who have no legal property rights to the road and the basic premise of the upset wasn't so much whether or not the people who owned the property could change the look of the road, but that they did. And when they changed the look, they changed - us. 

You see, there are two types of property ownership in Beaufort County. One is the legal ownership of a piece of land. The other is the ownership by our hearts of the memories attached to what we see, what we grew up with, what we love. The overall sentiment was this: that road is part of home - it's part of me - and, darn it, stop changing it! Yes, it's a bit of an existential crisis.

We native Beaufortonians have a character flaw. We love our little town, its history, its presence, its look - just the way it is (or, more accurately, was). Add to this that many of us have grown a bit anxious over the pace of change in Beaufort County, so when even one small difference is made to the look of the place we get - well, a little upset. Our memories are threatened. Our connections to our past which we hold quite dear to us become less sturdy. It scares us.

In his book, Night Train to Lisbon, the author Pascal Mercier says this:

We leave something of ourselves behind when we leave a place, we stay there, even though we go away. And there are things in us that we can find only by going back there.

This seems to be a defensible explanation for why so many people became so upset. How will I find myself if the place where my heart resides changes so much I can't recognize it? 

I do understand. When the county threatened to pave the dirt road to our home, the old avenue to Fuller Plantation on St. Helena Island, I practically came unglued. Even though the road would remain, it wouldn't be the same. I felt personally threatened. Fortunately, this calamity was avoided and the road remains as it was. For now.

We also have a strong connection to trees in this place we call home. Other parts of the country cut down trees willy-nilly but here, even where there's a great abundance of trees, they don't come down without a lot of things having to happen first. That's probably a very good thing. 

For example, there's this tree which I love. It's a Spanish Oak tree in the yard of my childhood home. It's a lovely old tree that's been there a long time. And there's so much to love about it.

It is a tree of size. An oak tree - once a tiny acorn (an almost unimaginable thought) - that has grown to such proportions that it now commands a prime spot on Yard Farm.

It is a tree of history. Who knows what it's seen? In the children's book, "The Lorax", the Once-ler "speaks for the trees for the trees have no tongues". Ah....if only they did. What stories they could tell! 

It is a tree of fun and excitement. The rope swing is the latest version of several rope swings attached to the largest branch. When I was 12, one of my childhood friends fell out of the swing and broke her collarbone. In her pain and distress she swore she had been deliberately pushed out of the swing. 

I don't know - I think I'm pretty sure she just fell out. That has a tendency to happen with swings. But I still felt badly about it.

As teenagers, we got an extension ladder and leaned it against the trunk of the tree so we could climb to the first bifurcation of limbs - about 12 feet above the ground. We carried the swing with us, carefully turned around, slipped a foot in the loop of the rope and jumped. Oh, the adventure! (Especially since the integrity of the rope was constantly in question.) 

And my children, grown as they may be, still beg their uncle for his special swing pushes -

The Dream

The Storm

The Airplane

The Tornado

The Nightmare

There are other Yard Farm trees with stories to tell. "The Dragon Tree" is a horizontal casualty of Hurricane Gracie but yet is still living and thriving as a perfect place for little boys to play. And my grandmother had a tree in her yard next door that was perfect for climbing into with a book and losing track of time. When I was in that tree I knew that, for a moment, I was invisible to the rest of the world, safe in its protective arms, soothed by its quiet strength.

But probably most profound to me is that this particular tree is a tree of security. It's been there my whole life. It's been there for my dad's entire life. In the sea of change that is life, this tree is constant. 

How very reassuring. And how necessary to those of us who have become a little distressed over the changes we see happening to the place we call home.