It’s the trees. The trees get me every time.
When you walk the sidewalks of Fairhope, Alabama, it’s the trees that impress you most. It’s not the upscale homes, nor the Mayberry-like storefronts, which all give you the impression that you have fallen into a Rockwellian planned urban development.
No. It’s the live oaks.
They tower over the byways like ancestors. Trunks as thick as Buicks. Tall as ferris wheels. Giant, spidery arms, draping over roadways, intertwining in a giant web, letting tiny slivers of sunlight between their fingers.
Their bark is covered in brilliant green resurrection ferns, which grow directly into the gnarled skin of each tree.
Resurrection ferns do not steal water and nutrients from the oaks; they absorb nutrition from the air. During drought, the ferns conserve water by shriveling and turning brown. But they’re just sleeping, really. Once moisture returns, they “resurrect,” unfurling their fronds of verdant green.
But, oh, the trees.
As you walk through the groves of Quercus virginianas, you feel each tree’s personality. Don’t let anyone tell you that trees don’t
have personalities.
One tree is strong and stalwart, almost symmetrically bold in its warrior pose. Another tree is slender, flexible, twisting its arms, gyrating in all directions, like the class clown in a senior photo.
A stroll through Fairhope feels like walking through a private social club of Southern live oaks. They gather together. Like they’re mingling. You feel like a crawling toddler, scuffling along the floor of your parents’ living room during a cocktail party. Crawling through the forest of adult legs, hearing adult conversations above you, but you have no idea what they’re saying.
Two massive trees in the distance have arms intertwined, almost like they are touching. It looks like they are holding hands. I’ve never seen trees do this before. It’s amazing.
“Trees can be in love,” says an old man who I meet in the park. He’s…