Beck’s Prime Oaks

Does everyone do this?

Do you automatically prepare for the worst, to set up the possibility of getting pleasantly surprised when it turns out not-so-bad?

Not sure it’s a great idea to publicly acknowledge the weird little ways I operate in daily life, but I tend to forecast negatively. In a mental layer somewhere underneath that, there is a hint of optimism - that it will all turn out fine. But without thinking about it, I default to fear of getting my hopes up and suffering disappointment.

I’m not saying it’s a healthy habit. I even have a little name for it.

I call it: Pessimism as a Defense Mechanism.

When I mentioned to our host at the wonderful Modern B&B that we had come to Houston primarily to seek out trees for my project, she strongly suggested that we visit some she knew about, near a burger place called Beck’s Prime.

You HAVE to see these!

My interest piqued, I was more than a little dubious, wondering if they were worth finding, especially since they aren’t on my list.

However, her other recommendations were excellent, so my kid and I headed there for lunch. Nearing the location, with the inevitable bumbling to pinpoint the exact GPS spot, I caught sight of a group of live oaks and I felt the dismay I had prepared myself for.

Ok yeah. Those are pretty big, but nothing to get excited about.

*These turned out to be younger “cousins” to the more gigantic specimens nearby*

We found parking near the front entrance and I then glimpsed what our host had urged us to see, which far exceeded anything I might’ve imagined.

With the urban landscape squeezing in around them — a high rise in one direction, a library and dry cleaners in another AND a brick paved drive-thru path woven around them, it’s a wonder these two gigantic, magical specimens have held up. Like the last two live oaks I visited, they had lost much of their foliage, but yellow-green baby leaves sprouted in recovery from the record low February temperatures just a few weeks prior.

Kiddo aptly called the incredibly looooong stretching branches tentacles; a fresh descriptor word for which I’m always thankful. The intertwining limbs of these two giant octopus-like oaks create an enormous shady canopy. Wooden buttresses hold up the lowest appendages from touching the ground, covered in crispy resurrection ferns yet to show new life.

A little wooden sign stated that they are over 400 years old, which means their seeds would have germinated around the 1620s.

I get this question a lot: How old are the trees?

There aren’t many easy ways to determine age. Variable situations increase or slow growth over the decades, so some with poor conditions may not look as old as those in favorable locations which appear more mature. The definitive way to know for certain is to count the rings, which, of course, would mean cutting it down. We are left with estimates and I’m not sure who calculated this one or how they made their assessment.

We enjoyed lunch on the extensive wooden deck in the dappled shade. This raised platform protects from foot traffic and allows rain to the roots. We spent a long time wandering around taking photos.

I can’t believe they thought a drive-thru was a good idea here, but even with vehicles idling in the to-go lane, there’s a calm, peaceful energy under the canopy not typically associated with fast food. Everyone in the vicinity smiled at us.

Last summer, while sprinting to cram a bunch of tree visits in one day, I jokingly compared my frantic search to the slogan for Pokémon Go — Gotta Catch’Em All! This time my (almost) twelve-year-old played Pokémon Go in real time and the video game recognized our location.

*A screenshot of my favorite photos created this thing*

Foreboding Joy

It amazes me how often I need a reminder of the same thing I KNOW I have learned before. I joke about placing billboard hints in my driveway or stapling profound quotes to my forehead so it will finally sink in for good.

When I was going through my divorce, my sister suggested I look up (Houstonian) researcher of vulnerability Dr Brene Brown. I’ve since devoured her podcasts and long form interviews on YouTube.
She names the exact defense mechanism I use daily and eloquently defines my negative default as a typical type of “armor” we use in attempt to shield against pain.

Take 6 minutes to hear her break this down with Oprah.

After my marriage fell apart, I more or less stopped working in my garden, which I used to blog about. I lost the urge to cultivate home and made up this tree project for myself, seeking adventure exploring the state that I have called home for most of my life.

Though my lowered expectations worked out for me this time, Brene points out that these habitual mind tricks don’t keep upheaval or loss away from us. It’s kind of heartbreaking to acknowledge how my mind is working behind the scenes to not feel pain again. I’m trying to notice myself lapsing into that protective habit and practicing gratitude in its place, as she recommends.

In the presence of something tremendous and unexpectedly beautiful like this, thankfulness bubbles up on its own.

Pondering the cell structures in every bit of bark, I get mentally cosmic. Just imagine the jillions of events, big and small, that have transpired in 400 years… Or all the myriad steps it took to preserve these massive living things in the middle of the largest city in Texas.