One day when I was about 4 years old my family drove north to spend a weekend at Asti. Asti is a small hamlet in California’s wine country. In 1902 my great grandfather was a wine maker there and he built a large home for his family next to the winery where he worked. His home was called Villa Buen Retiro – house of good rest. It is a place where we can see, hear and feel our family history.

While taking a walk, my dad and I spotted an acorn that had planted itself not too far from a large black oak tree. Dad called it a volunteer because it fell naturally and found a place to grow on it’s own. We placed rocks around it and made sure it was watered. He said that was now my tree. I had my very own tree!

You might not think having your own tree is a big deal but it was to me. You see, I am the youngest in my family and it always seemed like I was being left out or left behind. But now I had something no one else had, my very own tree. 🙂

Growing up, we visited Asti several times each year. As soon as the car stopped the first thing I would do was hop out and run to my tree and say hi. I watched it grow and grew up as well. I loved my tree.

Over the years dad and I would take walks and he would point out all of the original trees on the property. He looked for the “volunteers” that would in time take their place. If there weren’t any, he would “draft” one and plant it. To keep the tradition going, eventually each member of the family got a tree.

Well, many years have passed and while visiting last Christmas I noticed the oak that dropped the acorn that grew into my tree had fallen. It’s trunk rings told us it was well over 150 years old. This fall we visited again. Dad is now nearly 87 and in declining health. It was a struggle but we managed to get to my tree to take this picture.

Dad, thank you for everything, and especially for my tree. It is a lasting memory of you at Asti that will stand tall for generations. I promise to visit my tree every time we go to Asti and I’ll make sure for each tree that falls there is at least one to replace it. The tradition will continue. Life goes on…

I love you dad.

***I wrote this October 16, 2009.  Dad died 2 weeks later.