On both counts it was love at first sight and I bought my home that very day. I named the house Mamie, and the giant green ash tree I've named Ernie. I love Ernie; he's somewhere between 110-130 years old and stands approximately 60-feet tall.

Ernie has withstood winds in excess of 50 mph and the assault of major ice storms. Three years ago when the backlash of Hurricane Ike ripped through Kentucky, I watched in horror as furious winds whipped my giant tree like a swizzle stick. I stood at the window and chanted, "Hang on Ernie! HANG ON!

And he did.

But Ernie is in trouble. His age and the many years of assaults have taken their toll. This winter he developed a split in his trunk and a nasty gap farther up on the opposite side. Some people said, "Cut the tree down and plant another one," and others said, "It's just a tree, why are you so upset?" I stared at them like they were from Mars. Just a tree?

Ernie matters!

After consulting with an arborist and keeping my fingers crossed that Ernie could be saved, a plan was put into place: four cables to brace the large main branches and then the latest technology-steel rods driven through the trunk and bolted for internal support. As the tree continues to grow, it will heal around the rods and bolts and become stronger.

Ernie's "surgery" went well, and afterward he was treated to a deep-root feeding. So now I'll wait and hope and pray that all the measures I've taken to ensure Ernie's life since I became his caretaker (which have exceeded the cost of a Ford Fiesta), will work.

My dad was a lot like Ernie-tall, strong, and quietly proud-a salt of the earth genuine American. He was a man who loved nature, animals, and the crisp smell of autumn mornings-a man who knew the fatigue of hard manual labor, and the satisfaction of a job well done.

He also loved trees, and he took stewardship of those on his property seriously. As his days grew shorter and his legs weaker, my dad would push his wheeled walker into the kitchen, shuffle to the table and sit. He enjoyed looking out at the property and trees that he loved so much-many of which he planted over his long and full life.

The night of my father's passing, I leaned over the bedrails and wrapped my arms around him as best as I could. It surprised me how solid he was, how the years of manual labor had hardened him to the point that even up until the end, he remained substantial.

My father's ashes were scattered among the trees, but his legacy lives on in the hearts of his children and in the trees that stand proudly on his property. My dad made a difference in this world, and he knew what mattered and what didn't.

I tell Ernie how important he is to the environment, to me, to the birds and squirrels and the garden that he shades. I often hug Ernie and tell him that I love him while giving his rough bark a good strong pat. Though some people might think I'm "off" or perhaps downright crazy, I don't care. When I hug Ernie I'm hugging nature, and in a way I'm hugging my dad too-I'm wrapping my arms around something that matters.

When the arborist said that he was surprised how Ernie continues to stand up to nature's assaults, I just looked up at the thousands of tiny buds that are sprouting and smiled. I believe it's because he's loved.

Beth Hoffman is the author of the New York Times bestseller, Saving CeeCee Honeycutt. You can visit her website at www.BethHoffman.net. Her personal interests include the rescue of abandoned and abused animals, birding, gardening, historical preservation, and laughing with girlfriends.