80-year-old
Mark Howard stared up at the oak tree with his cloudy eyes.
Its huge trunk rose high above him and then spread out into
thick, sturdy limbs. Bumpy roots protruded from the soil under
his feet. He had never thought it would actually happen…
“Mark,
Mark! Mark Howard! Come home, that’s enough!” called
Mark’s mother, Carol.
“Okay, okay, I’m coming. One minute.”
Mark picked up the small statue of a lamp that he had
just carved and placed it in a small cave in the tangled,
ancient roots of the oak, next to his other statues. Then he
picked up his carvings and dragged his feet home as slow as
his 7-year-old legs could carry him.
Mark came to the oak tree everyday, and sat under it.
He gathered fallen branches and chiseled them into totem
poles, and small sculptures. These he gave as “offerings”
to the oak tree, as if it were a god. He loved doing this; it
was like a game for him. He had no brothers or sisters, so he
was used to doing things alone.
No
adults ever came near this oak tree, since it was in a vacant
lot. No one had ever showed interest in the lot, and so the
oak had grown. It was over fifty years old. Small children
came everyday to the tree. They climbed up it branches, and
did contests on who could get the highest in the tree. It
seemed that the tree had been made to climb. It had knots and
holes in just the right places for the children’s little
bodies to put their feet in and hoist themselves up. Older
sisters and brother climbed up before, then pulled their
smaller siblings into the tree. Squirrels played in it, and
gathered acorns for the winter, and the tree must have had
over fifteen birds’ nests in it.
One
day Mark came to the vacant lot and saw that the tree was
gone. A sign planted in the middle of the lot read
“Construction Site: City Park”. He walked to where the
tree had been, and there was a stump of the ancient oak tree,
ringed with the many years it had lived. There was nothing
left. Mark walked all around the tree stump, which was about
five feet in diameter. His statues had also disappeared. Mark
sat down on the stump and started to cry, his tears falling
into the dust and wood shavings. He curled up on the stump and
cried until it seemed his eyes had run out of tears. Then he
slowly got up, and started to trudge home.
All
of a sudden, in the dust, he saw something: an acorn. 
He
couldn’t have been happier if he had found a gold ring. This
acorn was the only thing left of the old tree. He smiled a
teary smile when he saw it, for it reminded of him of the many
days when he had grabbed a handful of acorns and tossed them
in the air, having them rain down on his head. Mark picked up
the acorn, and started running. He didn’t know where he was
running; it was as if only his legs knew where they were
carrying him, and none of the rest of his body did. Finally,
he stopped in the middle of a vacant lot, just like the old
one. It was covered in weeds, and there was no one around. He
fell down onto his knees and started digging with his bare
hands. Finally, when he had a good-sized hole, he dropped the
acorn in. Then he packed the dirt around it and left.
After
that, Mark never came back to the acorn. He never watered it,
or even came to check on it. This was because when he got home
that day, he found out that he was moving away, to a different
state.
“We’re
moving to Virginia, son. I got a better job there,” said
Mark’s father.
“I’ll
bet there’ll be even bigger trees for you to play under
there! You’ll get used to it, Mark,” said Carol.
“But…but…”
stuttered Mark, remembering his acorn.
“We’ll
talk about it in the morning,” said Carol.
No
matter how much Mark tried to convince his parents, they had
already decided they were moving, and there was nothing he
could do about it.
A
month later, Mark Howard officially lived in Virginia, two
thousand miles away from his beloved oak tree’s acorn. He
thought of the acorn often, wondering if it would grow. He
thought that it probably couldn’t grow in that old lot,
without some care, at least. Finally, he stowed all the
thoughts about his acorn in the back of his mind, and forgot
about it.
Meanwhile,
the acorn, planted deep beneath the ground, was growing and
sprouting a small stem...
Mark looked down at the spot where he had planted an acorn
seventy-three years before. From that spot rose a huge oak
tree, even bigger than the old one had been. Children playing
in the branches looked down at him curiously, as they had
never seen him before. A small squirrel scurried over and
sniffed his shoe, hoping he would give him some bread or
popcorn. Four fluffy yellow chicks looked down at him from
their nest. Tears filled his eyes…tears of joy.
Slowly,
Mark Howard hobbled over to the tree, leaning on his cane. His
hands shook and his legs were not steady. He sat down at the
base of the tree and his old, wrinkled mouth parted into a
smile. The children, who had become silent, started playing
again, paying no attention to the old man.
No,
Mark had not raced into a burning house to save a man. No, he
had not thrown out a lifeline just before someone drowned. No,
he had not reached down from the top of a steep cliff, and
pulled someone to safety.
But
in some way, Mark Howard was a different kind of hero.
