Plum Tired
Noel Laflin
7-23-13
I am going
to have to take down the old Satsuma plum tree soon – and I am not happy about
it.
You see,
this particular old friend has been providing us with some of the most
succulent purple fruit one could ever hope to bite into for the past thirty
years. And, even when summer is laid to
rest each year, there’s still the promise of tartly sweet plum jam to get one
through successive autumns, winters and springs. Oh, just bring forth those hot English Muffins
smothered with melted butter glistening within every hidden nook & cranny
and topped off with a generous spoonful or two of our plum jam!
But there is
one other reason that I lament the eventual taking down of this quiet backyard
horn-of-plenty; it will erase yet one more touchstone to the past.
“We should
plant two plum trees,” Tom declared, as we labored to till the land of
our newly acquired small and rocky backyard. It was early December – 1983; we had just moved into the new condo in the old Paloma neighborhood in Orange over the long Thanksgiving weekend.
“If we have
two trees, we’ll have better chances of pollination,” Tom continued, as we
struggled to lift one more heavy rock from the hard-as-clay soil. In fact, it was hard clay mostly, as I
recall. Tom said that gypsum would help
break it down over time. And like all
things related to gardening, he was right about that idea too.
“I suggest we go with two varieties – a Santa
Rosa and a Satsuma. You remember that
Satsuma tree in Jim’s backyard? Jesus,
Mary and Joseph! I’ve never tasted a
sweeter plum,” Tom said, as he closed his eyes, wet his lips and clicked his
tongue in remembrance.
“Yeah, that
was a pretty good plum,” I agreed, leaning hard into the shovel as Tom wedged
the pick ax under a massive boulder we were attempting to dislodge from the
middle of the yard.
“I grew up
on Santa Rosas,” I continued, taking a moment to wipe the sweat from my eyes
with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. “You
can make great jam from Santa Rosas, Tom.
I watched my mother do it for most of my life. You’ve tasted her jam. It’s still legendary in my folks’ old
neighborhood. I bought a lot of favors
from old neighbors if I showed up with any half pint of my mother’s plum, peach or apricot jam.” Now, it was my turn to
momentarily close my eyes and lick my lips in tribute to the thought. “Yeah, we’ve got to plant plum trees for
sure.”
And, so we
did. The two trees were in the ground by
Christmas. Within two years we had our
first small crop of Satsuma’s and Santa Rosa’s.
The trees were planted within just a few feet of one another and soon
entangled their branches high above our heads. The rest of the garden burst forth in bloom under Tom’s green thumb as
well. Koi ponds were dug and stocked and thrived under his supervision. But the two young plum trees were
the real treasures as they quickly grew reaching for the sky, producing exponentially
year-by-year.
Ten years
later, as twilight lingered just long enough, I was planting Tom’s ashes beneath a giant rock that buffeted one of the
koi ponds. The gypsum that he had
insisted would help break down the hard clay had done its job apparently, as
the digging was easy, even by hand. Tom
had come home to rest in the shade of two stately plum trees. I had become an expert in the art of jam
making by then.
Seventeen
years later, the old Santa Rosa came to the end of its life and gave me one
last crop of small, but tasty fruit. I
savored every one of those edible gems before taking down the gnarled old giant
one fall afternoon. I used a curved hand
saw – never having liked the noise and disrespect a chain saw brought with
it. I apologized multiple times to every
brittle limb before starting each cut. I
also thanked the tree for the thousands upon thousands of plums it had provided
my family and friends for a quarter of a century. Once the tree was disassembled, piece by painful
piece – I went out and bought a new young sapling – a Satsuma - and planted it
within feet of the remaining old plum tree of ‘83. The youngster’s branches now reach for the
sky as it too explores the realms of exponential fruit multiplication.
And so, now,
I am faced with the sad fact that the last old remaining pioneer must come
down, as soon as I harvest this last small crop. The tree is three quarters dead you see. The last of the fruit will be easy to
gather. I probably should have taken the
old fellow down last fall, but could only bear to saw off a portion of my
tired, brittle friend. Just one more
summer I thought; just one more crop.
Let’s make it an even thirty years, I reasoned. The ghost of Tom nodded in agreement.
I was
sampling from a lower limb at twilight just a short while ago and smiled at the
familiar first bite – that first tang of sweet and tart that hits one’s taste
buds – the taste of summer itself.