On Hallowed Ground
In my backyard, as a little girl in North Carolina, standing solidly alone and strong, was an old woodsy, yet fruitful pecan tree of considerable stature. In the fall, we’d pick fresh pecans from her base, and gather them in the curled-up bottoms of our sweaters, discarding the rubbery hulls onto the ground. With this sweet harvest, my mother topped her chocolate cakes and made hot sticky pecan pies that would fill our bellies and satisfy our sweet teeth. On warm summer nights, she became our refuge from our hide-and-go-seek games and neighboring kids on the prowl to catch their next unsuspecting victim.
Written By Sarah Nixon - 22/23 Southern Studies Fellow
In my backyard, as a little girl in North Carolina, standing solidly alone and strong, was an old woodsy, yet fruitful pecan tree of considerable stature. In the fall, we’d pick fresh pecans from her base, and gather them in the curled-up bottoms of our sweaters, discarding the rubbery hulls onto the ground. With this sweet harvest, my mother topped her chocolate cakes and made hot sticky pecan pies that would fill our bellies and satisfy our sweet teeth. On warm summer nights, she became our refuge from our hide-and-go-seek games and neighboring kids on the prowl to catch their next unsuspecting victim. But every season, I revisit my brother climbing her to what seemed to my wide-eyed view unimaginable heights, boasting loudly about how far he had ascended from the earth, basking in the glory of his newfound freedom.
He loved climbing that tree.
Returning to Charleston, South Carolina, and visiting the Angel Oak Tree a couple of weeks ago was reminiscent of those fond memories. Years ago, while attending college, I visited primarily for a media conference held downtown. Though I have traveled to other places in the state, this was my first time in this magical city. Besides my hotel room, a nighttime social bar, and a visit to a plantation, out of pure curiosity, my experience with this historical place was limited and unknowing. This visit was different and special.
At first glance, I could not help but notice how the giant, bulky branches, and limbs of the Angel Oak Tree, while extending into an endless sky, turned, twisted, stretched, and bent as if a band of contortionists at a local carnival. Like many tourists visiting who walked about taking pictures, I found myself embracing, running my hands along the mighty limbs, possibly to feel even more connected to nature’s gift. From the captivating width of the tree to the stunning array of colors of fall that adorned its leaves, its presence brought me back to the days of home and my old pecan tree.
The mere history of this landmark is remarkable and rightfully compelling. In this space, I felt a special connection to past enslaved ancestors who once walked this hallowed ground, nurtured, talked to, and prayed around it, and those who climbed this majestic tree. As I took my leave, I wondered if the host of them were looking down upon me, perched among their heavenly boughs boasting loudly about how far they had ascended from Earth as they too basked in the glory of their newfound freedom. And yet, I remain wide-eyed.
