She Loves Me, She Loves Me Knot

For four years I watched wildlife dramas and comedies unfold on the knot of the huge oak tree outside my living room window.

The little stage was eye level and less than 10 feet from the house. While searching for the right word or phrase for a story, or during a long telephone conversation, I'd inevitably amble over to the window to see what was happening.

Squirrels were the most common thespians to tread the bark. On winter days, they'd stretch out flat on the little ledge and warm in the sun. Year round, they'd show up with choice nuts.

But in some seasons, the knot became a squirrel Inspiration Point. I don't have a good view of all the tree knots in my yard, but I'm thinking 90 percent of the squirrels on our half-acre got their start on that knot. After leading their suitors in mad chases, spiraling up and down the tree like the stripes on a barber's pole, female squirrels inevitably landed huffing and puffing on the knot to consummate their courtships.

Early on, before I realized just how lascivious squirrels are, my then four-year-old daughter and I were watching a pair of squirrels in what I thought was a cute mutual grooming session. Suddenly it turned X-rated and I rushed to block her view. It was too late.

"Honey, they're just wrestling," I told her, immediately cringing that something so lame and old-fashioned came out of my mouth.

"I think that one is winning," she said.

All was well with the knot, until one day I saw a squirrel go in and not come out. Not long afterward, the tree's leaves turned copper and fell off. The tree guys with their saws, dump trucks and tractor showed up last August. It took four men all day to take the 50-foot tree down.

I wanted to ask them to cut the knot out for me. In Rorschach ink blot fashion, the gnarly knob had taken on the look of a face to me over time, and I desperately wanted some memento other than the mulch-filled hole. But I refrained from asking, thinking these men, who were so cavalierly throwing the limbs of my favorite tree into a chipper, would doubt my sanity.

After they felled the main trunk, I went out to count the rings. The tree wasn't as old as I thought. Some years it had grown inch-thick rings in its girth. That swift growth is why laurel oaks were planted so profusely early in the last century.

But it also dooms them to shorter lives-a 60-year-old laurel oak tree is pretty much done for, as so many homeowners found out during the recent hurricanes.

We haven't decided what, if anything, we will replant. It won't be a laurel oak. Maybe I should check with the county extension service to see what grows good knots.

Teresa Burney is a contributing editor for Orlando Homebuyer and Big Builder magazines.