Around this time last year, the oldest tree in Washington, DC came crashing to the ground. The Northampton Oak was likely planted around the time of the Mayflower Compact, and it stood in Chevy Chase, on the DC side of the border with Maryland, for more than 400 years. The tree was broad, tall, and strong. Its canopy spread out over the whole street, providing shade for 15 generations of underdwellers. And yet it fell all the same, seemingly without warning, on a clear windless day in mid-July.
I cannot help but think of this tree as the United States celebrates 249 years of nationhood. The Northampton Oak was a sapling when Charles I acceded to the throne in 1626. So it was already old when the colonists rebelled against the rule of George III in 1775. For the whole history of the country, it silently presided over the many momentous events taking place only a few miles away, until one day it did not. Now it is a stump.
The year before the Northampton Oak fell, the oldest tree in Maryland came down. The Linden Oak was not quite as ancient as its counterpart, but the tree, which stood in Bethesda for more than 300 years, was still older than the Declaration of Independence. Its demise was not sudden, but a slow, agonized affair. In 2020, the Linden Oak’s canopy split and it lost its largest limb. It did not bloom in spring 2022 and was pronounced dead. It continued to stand until mid-July 2023, when the city removed it, calling its continued existence a safety hazard.
In the interim between its death and removal, I intended to go see the Linden Oak one last time. I never did. I regret that lapse now, but maybe it was for the best. The Northampton Oak’s fall was swift and unexpected, but at least there was nothing more to it than that. The Linden Oak, by contrast, was a doomed tree for years and unseemly to behold. Somehow that made its fall all the more tragic: When it finally expired, it was not even on its own terms.
It is a dour habit to consider the fall of the mighty on Independence Day, but where America is concerned, the thought is inescapable. Our country, after all, is an experiment, and all experiments eventually conclude. How and when is anyone’s guess—I hope I do not live to see it—but that it will happen is a certainty. It is often said that America is a young country, vital and energetic, and possessed of still greater, untapped strength. But at what point does this cease to be true? When does a nation become aged?
Most people, when they imagine their country’s demise (and everyone does at times), flatter themselves that its fall will be like that of the Northampton Oak. A big, dramatic event—“the great gasp of hull and ocean as a ship goes down,” as Shirley Hazzard wrote in a slightly different context. In truth, though, the Linden Oak is the better comparison. Few endings are so glorious as we would like. The final crash is usually preceded by years of decay, noticed, but often unacknowledged. And when it comes, it is usually not a spontaneous event, but a planned removal.
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Of course, some trees do seem to live forever. In the western United States there are pines at high altitudes nearly 5000 years old that have survived millennia of harsh weather and poor soil. No one knows exactly how they have lived for so long. Maybe it is the adversity itself. Our country is too young even to comprehend what that would be like. Five thousand years is older than any existing earthly institution. It is older even than the Great Pyramid of Giza. The United States may well never come close to such longevity.
And yet, perhaps it has already. In the 17th century Sir Thomas Browne wrote of America as a “great antiquity” that “lay buried for thousands of years.” “A large part of the earth is still in the Urne unto us,” he added. “Time hath endlesse rarities, and shows of all varieties; which reveals old things in heaven, makes new discoveries in earth, and even earth it self a discovery.”
I cannot think of a better description of our country. Though America is new, it is also very old—rather like one of those grand trees, which although ancient, still incredibly bring forth life.
