Wayne, from Athens, Georgia:

In 1820, when 6 out of every 10 people living in Georgia were slaves, an Athens gentleman named Colonel William Henry Jackson became particularly fond of a venerable white oak that had been growing on his property for as long as he could remember. It was a beautiful tree, perfectly formed, solid and stately as a Georgian day. Colonel Jackson worried about what would happen to his tree if anything should happen to him. Would a cabinetmaker cut it down for lumber? Would the town remove it to make way for a new street or a fire hall? To prevent such an eventuality, the colonel hit upon an ingenious idea. He deeded the land on which the tree grew, to a radius of eight feet from its base, to the tree, and then he deeded the tree to itself. “I, William Henry Jackson,” reads the duly notarized document, “do hereby convey unto the said oak tree, entire possession of itself.”

The self-possessed tree still stands in Athens on a small patch of tended turf at the corner of Finley and Dearing streets. It is, in fact, not the original tree that owned itself, since that tree was struck by lightning on October 7, 1942, and burned to the ground. This tree, grown from an acorn produced by the old tree, was replanted by the Junior Ladies’ Garden Club the following spring. It is known as the son of the tree that owned itself.

Merilyn and I stand side by side, looking at the tree, our shoulders touching. Protected from traffic, vandalism and dogs by a low, looping, chain fence, it is indeed a fine specimen. White oak is a handsome tree. But I can’t help thinking that, in a state where thousands of black slaves did not legally own their own children, here was a white oak that owned a prime parcel of Georgia real estate. At a time when thousands of human beings were the property of a handful of white masters, here was a tree that owned itself.

“Let’s get out of here,” I say to Merilyn.

(excerpt from Breakfast at the Exit Cafe)