When we were in Ontario this month, we stayed at The Forest Motel. It is aptly named, for the motel resides in a redolent wood of deciduous trees. Green and brown acorns were strewn across its black and gray asphalt parking. Black squirrels made off with the choice ones, leaving behind those they could not carry or missed, and the ones flattened by the tires of the rental cars of those on holiday.

I too have squirreled away six acorns for home.

I love oak trees with their majestic limbs and salient leaves. Oaks have wisdom in their wood; sacred sap flows with the reverence of the ancients. Back in Michigan I had nearly a dozen small oak trees in pots, which had started from similarly acquired acorns. When we moved to Arizona in 2005, I planted them around the property and in the field behind the house.  Like “Johnny Appleseed”, I will never know if any of my saplings survived.

I will plant my six acorns and see what happens. Perhaps the Arizona heat won’t blight all of them. One or two may survive and germinate.

How lovely it would be to have a oak tree. Acorns grow slowly but I am in no rush.

Planting acorns is an act of faith, a sort of belief in resurrection. As I dig and rake smooth the compost over these green beauties with their brown caps I trust my own ashes will some day form a part of another garden’s soil that brings forth higher branches and greener acorns.