09/05/2026
Yesterday, Lexington experienced a devastating storm.
As I drove through town, I followed the path of destruction. Huge trees were down across roads, yards, and properties, and some areas were hit especially hard. The damage was incredible to see.
But one tree stopped me in my tracks.
When I worked as the City Arborist, I had the privilege of caring for a magnificent white oak in what is now Oak Grove Cemetery. She was one of those trees that felt like more than just a tree. Majestic, enormous, and deeply rooted in the landscape and history of Lexington.
I found her completely down.
I parked the truck, walked into the cemetery, and just stood there for a while.
And honestly, I’m not ashamed to say I cried.
There is something uniquely heartbreaking about losing a tree that has stood through generations of people, storms, seasons, celebrations, and loss. Trees become part of the fabric of a place. We may not always notice them every day, but when they are suddenly gone, you feel their absence.
While I was there, I met a woman whose husband had passed away only six months ago. He had been a master gardener and was working toward becoming a Tree Steward and helping bring that stewardship back to Lexington. She told me how much he cared about the trees here.
That encounter felt strangely fitting.
And then she handed me some acorns from the fallen oak.
They’re still green. I don’t know yet whether they are mature enough to germinate, but I’m going to give them a chance. I collected a few more myself, and soon I’ll be putting them in pots to see if I can grow a new generation from this old tree.
Maybe they’ll grow.
Maybe they won’t.
But I think it’s worth trying.
This storm has been devastating, but one of the things that has been beautiful to witness is the way people have rallied around one another—checking on neighbors, helping clear roads, sharing resources, and simply showing up.
I hope we can carry that same spirit forward for Lexington’s trees.
Our urban canopy took a big hit. As the city begins assessing the damage and thinking about rebuilding, I hope we also begin thinking about the future: Where can we plant? What species will serve us well? How can we protect the trees that remain? How do we build back a healthy, diverse, resilient canopy for the next generation?
Trees take decades to become what we lost in a matter of hours.
But we can start planting today.
If you have storm-damaged trees and aren't sure what can be saved, what needs to come down, or what would be a good replacement for a lost tree, I’m always happy to help with an assessment or consultation.
And for now, I’m going to see if I can coax a little piece of this old white oak back into the world.
Sometimes stewardship means taking care of a tree.
And sometimes it means planting its children. 🌳
