The Kurnell

He’s a rugged and resilient ol’ coot, characterized by toughness and determination that has earned him the nickname The Kurnell. He lives to the left of our driveway atop our homestead, the View from The Hill. He is a Texas Hickory tree, a generic classification for those of us who are unable to discern the difference between Pignut, Black, or Mockernut hickories.

We fumbled upon our future homesite on a chilly November day.

Before the ink had dried on the purchase agreement, this extraordinary tree became my favored tree on our property. At that time, he had not introduced himself as “The Kurnell.” That introduction came the following winter, toward the end of a full year of facial expressions and wardrobe changes.

During late spring and summer, The Kurnell seamlessly blends into the landscape.

His leaves are dark green, creating a thick foliage that conceals his trunk and branches. There’s nothing distinguishing about him during the summer. But it is during the fall that his personality goes places. He proudly flaunts long magnificent leaves of yellow and gold. With nary a shy bone in his trunk, he grabs front and center stage for several weeks.

The bone-chilling cold of winter is essential to complete The Kurnell’s annual life cycle. By winter’s onset, he has shamelessly disrobed. A blanket of brown leaves lay piled around his trunk and beneath his branches.

A dozen robins, feverishly feasting on the red dogwood berries a cricket pitch away, scarcely notice his battle scars, made evident by the shedding of his regalia.

The top of The Kurnell’s main trunk is missing. It is speculated that he tangled with a tornado a few years ago and, according to local flora, he almost lost.

Several Red Oaks closer to the front of the property have insisted The Kurnell was all the rage back in the day. Miss Cedrus, an adjacent cedar, recently observed, “Even today, that boy ain’t short on looks. We all know that older hickories just get better looking with age.”

Not all of the trees weathered the storm as well as The Kurnell. The twister snapped the tops from a cluster of pines on the back property line several hundred feet from The Kurnell. Over time these already-weakened trees gave up the sap and succumbed to an untimely death by tree borers. Fortunately, The Kurnell’s hickory DNA triumphed.

Yes-siree-Bob, it’s been sad, The Kurnell is a rugged and resilient ol’ coot. I favor him because of his tenacity, his stickto- it-iveness. Perhaps in the 1800s, he would have been hewn down and fashioned into hickory wagon wheels for pioneers heading westward. Or it could be that the Wright brothers would have whittled him into one of their flying contraptions.

But those things didn’t happen. Instead, he was planted atop a mound of red clay and iron ore almost dead center in Cass County, Texas.

I am filled with wonder at his uniqueness, fashioned by the frenzied rage of a summer storm and the cold-bloodedness of winter winds. I revel in his company year after year, season after season, as do Miss Cedrus and the Red Oak sisters.