Oak's Itch

A hiker meets a new friend

         Sixty-two years ago, while hiking Scotland’s Faskally Woods, I sidestepped the beaten path to relax under the canopy of a majestic oak tree. Sitting with my back resting against the tree’s trunk, I heard a request for assistance.
         “I wish not to disturb, but may I ask of you a favor?”
          Seeing no one, I cheerfully responded. “Ask away.”
         From somewhere within the tree’s foliage, a friendly baritone voice echoed.
         “It is I, the tree whose trunk you are using for a backrest.”
         I sprung to my feet. Gazing up into the tree’s foliage to find the person talking to me, the tree again spoke.
         “I mean not to cause alarm, but would you be kind enough to scratch a fearsome itch I suffer.”
         Being the obliging person that I am, I agreed to ease the tree of the discomfort besetting it.
         “Please,” I asked the tree, “direct me to your itch."
         Without pause, the tree directed me to the source of its itch: a twig that sprung from the uppermost limb of its uppermost branch.
         As I began his ascent, I introduced himself to the tree. The tree, in turn, said its name was Oak. Oak and I conversed, touching upon various subjects. We came to discover how much we had in common. Both tree I loved birds, loathed ants, and were in agreement regarding tree carvers.
         As I closed in on Oak’s itch, I mentioned what good luck our encounter happened to be. “After all, Oak, not every tree and man speak a common language.”
         “Indeed, my friend, how could you I had an itch if you were not able to understand my request to be rid of it?”
         It took me the better part of an hour, but at long last, I was at the uppermost twig that sprung from the uppermost limb of Oak’s uppermost branch. With gentle care, I began scratching Oak’s itch.
         Oak responded to the pleasurable experience of having its itch scratched with a subtle shudder and a resounding, “Ahhh, yes.”
         Task completed, I began his descent. Angling my way to the ground I asked Oak if it were not a tree, what would it fancy being.
         Oak quickly answered. “Where I am, and what I am, is. I am grateful being the best of the woods in the woods. To want more, or to be something I am not, flies in the face of our creator.”
         I responded in full agreement. “Oak, my friend, not only are you the best of the woods in the woods, you are no doubt its wisest.”
         Presently, well into my eighties, I make an annual pilgrimage from my home in Gwespyr, Wales, to Faskally Woods to visit my dear friend. Not nearly as spray as I once was, I am still able to climb about Oak’s branches and limbs. While we chat about this and that, every so often Oak requests I tend to a bothersome itch.

WC: 492