When is the best time to plant a tree?

Twenty years ago.

When is the next best time to plant a tree?

Today.

Oh, so perfect, this little ditty. So apt. So wise.

But I’m taking this one literally. Twenty-five years ago I planted three oaks, one for each of my sons. And today they are large and majestic and healthy, just like them.

Five years ago, I started planting oak saplings again. Why?

Well, let me warn you: it sounds very utilitarian.

I do it in order to grow my own firewood.

Yes, I know, that is so not the point of the ‘plant a tree’ ditty. But in a way, it kind of is. Here’s my thinking: I want to grow my own firewood, on my property, letting it mature over ten, twenty, thirty years, to be burned in my fireplace, warming my family with its heat and ambiance.

I realize, at my age, that I won’t be enjoying much of that oak-infused heat or ambiance. My sons will. Their wives will. And their children. When they’re sitting around the living room, basking in its glow, warming themselves in front of it, letting it serve as the oil of conversation, commenting on the richly-burning hardwood that lasts so long and gives off such heat, I can hear them say, “That’s pop’s oak, grown right here on this land.”

My fireplace, too, is part of my scheme to be remembered. I built it with love and thought and creativity. I studied my living room over time, reading in different places, noticing the cast of natural light throughout the day, taking it in at various angles, imagining the perfect hearth. I researched inserts and grates and doors. I researched forced-air heating options. I hired a mason who was also a craftsman.

Then I sourced hundred-year-old bricks from a demolished LA building from the 1920’s. We settled on charcoal-black mortar. I scavenged a hefty ten-foot mantel of mesquite wood from an old Mexican barn. I refinished it with great care, sanded it smooth, and mounted it to withstand a quake.

Whether it is growing my own oak or improving my little spot of earth or custom-building my own fireplace, I find joy in approaching it with the eye of a designer, the soul of an artist, and the sensibility of a recycler. I don’t want to just do it. I don’t want to Home Depot it. I want to create something I can be proud of. Something meant to last. I want to be attuned to the energy of a space, its natural flow, its proximity to the sun, its relation to the prevailing winds, the way it interacts with rock, wood, water, metal, and fire. In essence, I want to be a feng shuiist.

As I write this, I turn to my left to check on twelve, four-inch oak saplings sitting on my desk. I collected the acorns several months ago, refrigerated them for two months, then nestled them in warm, wet sawdust until they sprouted eager, wild roots. Now they grow in my homemade compost. (Yes, two cubic yards of kitchen scraps where 10,000 worms work for me, day and night.)

I nurture the now-saplings on my desk because two weeks ago I found out how much rabbits love tender oak leaves popping out of the earth. These cute baby oaks will sit on my desk for a month or so until spring when their sweet lime-green leaves toughen into forest-green and become less appealing to rabbits. They will grow in the garden in their black containers for a year or two.

Then one winter day they will get carried to their final home on my hills somewhere. They will suck nutrition from the soil, CO2 from the air, energy from the sun, and nitrogen, phosphorus, and potassium from the water, thickening into firewood-worthy oak. That old boy will then be cut, seasoned in the hot sun for a year, and then carried next to the fireplace. But not just any fireplace. This one is made with 1920s brick, charcoal grout, and crowned by a fifty-pound chunk of mesquite.

Once placed in the hearth, given a couple minutes to catch, that old oak will throw off some heat and ambiance to some future relative of mine … maybe a son … maybe a grandkid … or maybe a grandkid’s spouse. And who knows, maybe the quality of the fire will quiet the conversation for a moment, making someone look up at the flames and say,

“You know, that firewood, that oak that’s burning so beautifully—did you know that Opa planted that years ago? Right here, on this land. Even though he knew he’d never enjoy its heat, he still planted the tree. Isn’t that cool?”

That’s why I plant trees.