Sometimes, my book worlds collide, and the collision is more splendid than I could ever have imagined. Recently I bought two books: Lost Words, the only coffee table book I’ll ever own, and The Overstory, the 2019 Pulitzer Prize winner and New York Times bestseller. Lost Words, written by Robert Macfarlane and exquisitely illustrated by Jacki Morris , celebrates—and mourns—the passing of 20 words from the natural world: acorn, adder, bluebell, bramble, conker, dandelion, fern, heather, heron, ivy, kingfisher, lark, magpie, newt, otter, raven, starling, weasel, willow, and wren. Macfarlane calls his book a spellbook for conjuring back these lost words, words that he most fears are disappearing from the language of children.

After I could open the book without being wholly consumed by the illustrations, I began to seriously consider the words that Macfarlane identifies as lost. I recall holding the book in my hands, paging from word to word, and thinking No way! Acorn??? Dandelion??? Heron??? Willow??? Living in rural Iowa, these are some of the coolest words I know and use. I have read lists of words that we are losing or have lost, words such as gallivant, kerfluffle, and hootenanny. And I admit that I could lose these words and sleep soundly. But ivy and wren? I would fight for these words, and if they succumbed to those who put them to early deaths, I would write their eulogies and lay flowers on their graves.

Conker, however, made me pause. I scrutinized the illustration of what resembled a buckeye-type nut with a prickly casing. I read the accompanying poem for clues. In the end, I googled it and discovered that conker is the seed of the horse chestnut tree (not to be confused with the sweet chestnut tree which supplies edible nuts). I admit that I have never used the word conker nor heard anyone else use it. And sadly, I admit that I rarely–if ever–use the word chestnut unless I am singing along with Nat King Cole: Chestnuts roasting on an open fire, Jack Frost nipping at your toes. . .

The Overstory, written by Richard Powers, contains interlocking stories of 12 people who learn to truly see and value trees as ecologically and spiritually indispensable. Most of the characters become activists of some sort, and like Powers himself revealed in a Guardian profile, all find their place in a system of meaning that doesn’t begin and end with humans. The opening story centers on the American chestnut tree and the blight that destroyed the 4 billion trees that grew in the eastern U.S. At the turn of the 20th century, the American chestnut was destroyed within 40 years. Today, there is one surviving giant (recently discovered in Maine) that is 115 feet tall, the tallest known tree in North America. The tree is not technically extinct; the species has survived by sending up sprouts from stumps, but these sprouts eventually succumb to the blight, die, and return to the ground.

The American chestnut was distinctive not only for its height but for its value. Its wood was strong and rot-resistant, perfect for log cabins, posts, poles, flooring, and railroad ties. The nuts fed birds, wild animals, hogs, cattle, and people. Some have called the American chestnut the perfect tree. Until Cryphonectria parasitica, a parasitic fungus native to South East Asia, was accidentally introduced to North America. The American Chestnut Foundation claims that this blight was the greatest ecological disaster to strike the world’s forests in all of history.

So when my books worlds collided, there in the dust lay the coupling of Macfarlane’s conker and Powers’ fictional account of a lone surviving American chestnut tree (in Iowa no less). Sadly, conker may go the way of the American chestnut tree: something we remember–for a time–and seasonally celebrate in song. Both are essentially lost, and this loss may be more costly than we can imagine. This, of course, is Powers’ admonition in The Overstory. In a New York Times review of this novel, novelist Barbara Kingsolver writes that this novel intends to tell us that in fact we’re not much more than a sneeze to a bristlecone pine and that the contest for the world’s forests is every bit as important as the struggles between people.

As I walked the other morning, I speculated about the loss of words–and trees–that are an integral part of my life. If we lose the word acorn, will the oak tree be far behind? And what about willow, such a lovely word and even lovelier tree? What would my world be without oak and willow trees? Quite simply, it would be less. Less lovely and less alive.

I concede that some words should gracefully fade into that place where dying words go. Giglet, a merry, light-hearted girl, disappeared from our language (and I, for one, am eternally grateful). As did scurryfunge, a quick tidying of your house between the time you see your neighbor and the time she knocks on the door (I mean who really bothers to quickly tidy up?) Giglet and scurryfunge have left our lexicon–thankfully–and there have been few, if any, mourners.

But consider these 15 words that are used most often today:

Email
Internet
Google
YouTube
Website
Twitter
Texted
iPhone
iPad

I’d hate to think that Twitter edges out kingfisher or that YouTube replaces heather. Our language and our lives are so much richer when the words that name our flora and fauna are living, just as their species are.

Richard Powers told the Chicago Review of Books that writing The Overstory quite literally changed my life, starting with where and how I live. Powers moved from Palo Alto, California to the Great Smoky Mountains of Tennessee where he could live deep in the woods. Today, he admits that walking a trail has become as important to me as writing. And Powers’ new life in the woods is, no doubt, rich with growing things and the language to talk about it.

At the end of Macfarlane’s poem, “Conker”, he writes:

  Realize this (said the Cabinet-maker, the King and
  the Engineer together), conker cannot be made,
  however you ask it, whatever word or tool you use,
  regardless of decree. Only one thing can conjure
  conker--and that thing is tree. 

And so it is with acorns and buckeyes, with so many things we use and lose. Only one thing can conjure them: trees.