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In the 1850's this row of oak trees was planted by slaves - people who belonged to other people. From that inauspicious beginning sprang a tradition at this house on the Mississippi river, a tradition of planting oak trees. These trees remember a sky with no airplanes and air with no chloroflourocarbons. They remember a time when the ships that passed on the river just beyond the levee here did not have engines, a time when this river marked the western cultural boundary of a young nation. I visit them every year, and I bring a watch that belonged to my great-great grandmother who was born across the river from this spot at almost the same time these trees were planted. I hold that watch and I touch these trees and I know I am home.