This oak has stood for hundreds of years. It served as my compass while growing up. As a child, I was sure it escaped from the pages of the fairy tales I read. It was my compass because it was by far the largest point on the landscape for miles. Like true north, I could always find the oak and make my way back home. After several rough winters, it died last year and was put to rest. How many generations before me built their tree houses, ran under its sheltering arms during a downpour, picked blackberries from the vines on it's trunk and tried in vain to climb it? I never conquered the Oak. The lower branches had died decades before leaving no path to the top. In literature, I have read of the "mighty oaks"...the author surely passed by my home place.