Plum Tired

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.