Underoak is no more.

The Oak Tree fell over last Friday. There was not much left of it. We cut all the branches off of it years ago, even before my mother died, so this final fall was just the last small step in its demise.

I grew up under that tree. My parents bought the house in 1941. It was named “Underoak” because of the tree. My father was from Texas, and trees meant a lot to him. When I was a little girl riding in the back seat of their car trying to sleep while lying along the leather bench seat, my father would exclaim, “Look at that tree!” or “Oh, what magnificent trees!” And I would struggle to a sitting position to see what was so wonderful. Just trees. I never found my father’s roadside trees very interesting since I lived in a house next to a giant oak tree. Apparently, trees are rare in West Texas, where he grew up, and therefore, he was always impressed by large ones in other states.

They held Christening ceremonies for my sister and later for my brother, standing in front of the magnificent trunk shaded by the giant tree’s thick branches. They used a silver chalice for the Holy Water that the minister used to perform the ceremony. Two matching wooden pedestals stood on either side of the spot where Dr. Latch anointed the child and sent the devil packing. Each pedestal held a gorgeous flower arrangement made by our mother.

They held a fifth-anniversary party outside under the tree on April 12, 1945. That was the day that Roosevelt died, so the event was marked in the minds of their guests. Many, many parties enjoyed the shade of that tree. We used to eat at a wrought iron table on the patio next to the house. The help would serve us iced tea, tuna fish sandwiches, chicken salad, or sometimes calves’ tongue and other cold cuts on a platter. A precocious child, I enjoyed taking some of the sliced calves’ tongue and eating it lustily, with mustard, much to the surprise of the adults.

Almost 300 years old, it was famous in the area. The great oak tree was the meeting place for the Potomac Hunt in the early 1900s. We have photographs of the hunters gathered there. There are more pictures hung on the wall at the Chevy Chase Club, just over the Maryland line.

My sister, brother, and I all played beneath that spreading oak tree and took it for granted. It was always there, and we believed it always would be. My father used to bemoan the fact that grass would not grow well under the large, shady branches. He tried to get special grass to take hold, but it was a losing battle. It was mossy, and there was a solid layer of topsoil under the moss. But the grass was spotty when we were young.

Many marriages and christenings were performed beneath the oak, and so many parties enjoyed that magical space. So much food and drink was consumed, and so many feet stepped on the soil and crunched acorns into it that the ground was rough. Good vibrations emanated from the top of the tree to the soft earth beneath it.

As years passed and the tree aged, branches needed to be trimmed off or fell, the sun was able to reach the ground, and grass began to grow in patches. This pleased my father even as he mourned the branches. But, in 1986, he died. He never saw the tree become old and gnarly. He was gone, but our mother lived on, first with a lover who died a few years later. Then she married a second husband, her old boyfriend, under the welcoming arms of the tree. They only had a few years together before she also outlived him.

She nearly outlived the tree. The branches were lying heavily against the house’s roof, which was worrying. They occasionally broke, showing that their insides were hollow. The arborist, who had taken care of the tree for years, told us it must come down. My sister said to me, “You cannot cut down that tree! It will kill Mother to lose it.”
So I spoke with our mother and told her what the tree man had said. “Good!” She exclaimed, ” I lie awake at night, fearing that the tree will come down on me and crush me in my bed.” She was not sentimental about it at all. Always practical, that was our mother.

So we cut it down to the top of the trunk. When she was sitting in her garden room looking out the window, the view was the same as ever, except it was sunnier. Cutting those branches off took two days. It was like watching the worst operation on a beloved family member. My mother was in Newport, R. I., at the time it was done. I stayed to make sure it all went without damage to the house. I hated watching it. In fact, I had to take a break now and then, but I filmed it with short videos and many “still” shots to document what I believed was the end of indignities to the tree.

I was wrong. Last Friday, in a strong March wind, the remaining trunk of that tree fell over onto the ground so heavily that it made a deep indentation. In spite of the fact that it was nearly hollow from bottom to top, it must weigh a huge amount. It is a large tree. Or I should say; It WAS a large tree. It lies now like a monument in a churchyard, waiting for the next indignity. Inevitably, it must be sliced up and disposed of like old trash. The wood is mostly rotted and unusable. What a sad end for something so utterly magnificent.

But the memories are many: the happy events, the playtime, the joyful, careless childhood games, the puppies we played with there, the spilled Coca-Colas, lost earrings, muddy shoes, and the true simple happiness it gave were and are still priceless.

We are always going to be part of the land where the tree grew; our spirits will inhabit the land for eternity.

Copyright©. 2025 Bonnie B. Matheson