Survivor Tree Symmetry

By Mary Stuever

August 2007

In the pre-dawn dark I am drawn toward what might be the perfect tree. As I climb cement steps, I admire the off-center symmetry of the tree’s dark silhouette. Leafy branches spread like a misshapen umbrella radiating from the center of a tiled plaza. I circle the tree, marveling at its good health, then move to the railing to gaze out over the dark reflecting pond that stretches across this downtown Oklahoma City block.

On April 19, 1995, this American elm survived the bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building. Located in a parking lot across the street from the blast, the tree was severely damaged, its branches riddled with residue. In the aftermath of the tragedy, the tree became a symbol of surviving, of moving on. Now a national icon, the Survivor Tree of the Oklahoma City Memorial not only bears witness to the tragedy of 1995, but as small black birds dart in and out of its lofty foliage, reminds me that each day requires its own survival skills.

On May 20 my father had a major stroke and survived. The stroke affected the left hemisphere of his brain. Along with other brain-injury-related challenges, he is unable to move his right side extremities. His speech and communication center is severely impaired. However, Dad has made remarkable, though slow, progress in the past ten weeks. His efforts seem to mirror the amount of attention and concern that his friends and family have directed toward him. Therefore, I have tried to spend as much time as I can in Oklahoma this summer.

When I can, I find myself drawn downtown to visit the tree. The lopsided canopy reminds me of his lopsided smile. I cannot help but draw more parallel observations between Dad and tree.

Neither was in great shape before the defining moment of their tragedies. Dad fit almost every risk category for people prone to have a stroke. The tree was in a parking lot, with asphalt plastered up to the trunk on all sides. Yet, each was uniquely loved for many qualities.

Though the elm looked like any other shade tree in a parking lot, it is one of the few American elms that have escaped death by Dutch Elm Disease. Once a prevalent tree throughout the eastern United States, American elms are now few and far between due to this imported malady. Although Dad might have resembled any other 75-year-old white male with a white hair and beard, he is also unique. As one friend kindly put it, “Your Dad is a rare breed, just like John Wayne—gonna get back on the horse even if he’s been shot in the gut. [He’s] one of those guys who will never back down, or never give up.”

My college classmate from the Oklahoma State University Forestry Department is now the state’s Urban Forester. After the attack, Mark Bays oversaw the treatment of the tree through the recovery process and memorial construction. While I visited Oklahoma, I found Mark and asked about the project. He described the aeration and watering system under the plaza that provides an optimum environment for root health. He grimaced at the initial trimming the elm underwent before he became involved in the project.

“The memorial team was great,” Mark confided. “They took every suggestion I made and did everything I recommended. Other projects have sought my advice since then on how to rescue trees in difficult situations, but they fail to follow through with the recommendations and their success is marginal.”

Dad’s in the same boat of needing to follow the advice of experts. When he does everything his physical therapist, occupational therapist, speech therapist, doctors, nurses, and case workers recommend, his progress is impressive. When he tells them all he’d rather stay in bed, he slips backward.

The bench by a nearby bus stop is decorated with silhouettes of the tree, but the shape is odd, with a branch sticking up like the feather on a Hollywood Indian brave. I ask Mark about the odd shape, and he explains that right after the bombing the silhouette did include a branch that towered over the rest of tree.

“The branch is still there,” Mark explains, “but the rest of the tree has now grown up around it.” We smile—we are foresters. The fact that trees grow and change is what makes our jobs so interesting.

I think about a nurse at the hospital early in the summer. She said our father, who was rather non-responsive and had feeding tubes and IV lines sustaining him, would never get any better. Six weeks later he was eating solid food, saying whole sentences, and propelling himself down the hall in a wheelchair. I love the changes Dad makes, and each day he adds a new surprise.

“Be sure to keep the Civil Engineering books,” he mutters one evening as I explain that we are selling some of his things that were in the house he rented.  I pay close attention; this is the first sentence that has made sense in our conversation tonight. “I will need those books to work again.”

Next to the Survivor Tree, a plaque reads: The spirit of this city and this nation will not be defeated: our deeply rooted faith sustains us.

I stand beneath the tree’s lofty branches, overlooking the foggy downtown skyline in the early morning light. Dad’s spirit will not be defeated either. I stretch my arms out toward the sunrise, mimicking tree branches, and find a deeply-rooted faith that will sustain me through this trial.

This article first appeared in The Forester’s Log, a syndicated monthly column published in newspapers and magazines primarily in the American West. Mary Stuever is the Burn Area Emergency Rehabilitation Coordinator for the White Mountain Apache Tribe.