Orchard House: How a Neglected Garden Taught One Family to Grow by Tara Austen Weaver
Authors: Tara Austen Weaver
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runoff from our bathwater and washing machine; through the flood of the early eighties that led to our move away from the country. Each fall we had pears. I was too young to know about fruit varieties; it would be years before I heard the names Bartlett, Bosc, and d’Anjou. I thought of them only as brown pears and golden pears. I liked the juicy golden ones the best.
When I think of those pears now, I think of my mother undertaking that life in the country—though clearly she did not have the knowledge required. She learned along the way; she taught herself, and she taught us, through trial and error. It wasn’t a madcap adventure either. We weren’t playing farmer. My father had left us with nothing, contributed nothing toward our support,and there were no other resources. My mother could not have afforded to buy those pears at the market, but she could plant a tree and tend it and, with effort and patience, she could feed her children sweet fruit each fall.
The last time I saw those trees, their tops had grown level with the second-floor window. It’s been years since I’ve been back, but I imagine the pear trees my mother planted are still going strong. Golden pears and brown pears each fall, to feed the children who live there now.
—
There was no trouble telling branches from roots on the trees my mother bought the first spring she was in Seattle. They came, still spindly and twiglike, but with their bases bundled in burlap. Some came from the nursery, some from a nearby plant sale. It was hard not to buy fruit trees that spring—and hard to stop once we’d started. Who wouldn’t want a mess of peaches, plums, cherries, quince? A fruit tree is an investment in happiness, in sweetness, in jam. Every time I considered the potential, I couldn’t say no.
When our spring buying spree was over, we had four cherry trees, one peach, a pluot, a quince, a persimmon, an Italian prune plum—and one final pear, to make sure we would have both golden and brown fruit in the fall. Orchard House, indeed.
Jenny may have guided our design plan, but it was still daunting to place the trees in the ground. You had to look at this stick of a sapling and imagine it big, imagine it in ten years, in fifty. This is the challenge of gardening: to see what is there now and to allow for what will grow. It is an exercise in imagination, in hope, in faith.
My mother was not very good at it. Hope and faith have never been her gig.
“Oh, no—that’s not the right spot.” I had arrived at the garden, after a day of work at home, to find my mom had plantedthe peach tree. “It’s too close to the pear—see how it throws off the whole circle? It needs to be planted here.” I strode a couple of yards to the left.
“I thought we would put the cherry there.”
“The cherry should go here.” I paced out a few more yards to the side and stood there. “This way, when it grows, the canopy won’t run into that apple tree.”
When I closed my eyes, I could see it—the trees bigger, the open meadow ringed by leafy green, shade where now there was just sun.
My mother couldn’t see it—she has never been one to gamble on what was not already there. She deals in absolutes: bills, deadlines, hard work. But here, at least, she trusted me.
She shrugged. “Okay, we’ll move it.”
Neither of us was digging the holes for the fruit trees. That task fell to Don, a man my mother had hired to do some odd jobs around the house and yard. He was the one who had to dig yet another large hole—about four feet across—to move the peach tree into. When he heard the news, he shrugged; he was being paid by the hour.
My mother had done some renovations to the house when she moved in. The hardwood floors were refinished, the downstairs wet bar taken out, and new carpeting and flooring laid throughout. The upstairs layout would always be odd, but the one eyesore that remained was the bathroom.
I suggested gutting the narrow upstairs bath and
When I think of those pears now, I think of my mother undertaking that life in the country—though clearly she did not have the knowledge required. She learned along the way; she taught herself, and she taught us, through trial and error. It wasn’t a madcap adventure either. We weren’t playing farmer. My father had left us with nothing, contributed nothing toward our support,and there were no other resources. My mother could not have afforded to buy those pears at the market, but she could plant a tree and tend it and, with effort and patience, she could feed her children sweet fruit each fall.
The last time I saw those trees, their tops had grown level with the second-floor window. It’s been years since I’ve been back, but I imagine the pear trees my mother planted are still going strong. Golden pears and brown pears each fall, to feed the children who live there now.
—
There was no trouble telling branches from roots on the trees my mother bought the first spring she was in Seattle. They came, still spindly and twiglike, but with their bases bundled in burlap. Some came from the nursery, some from a nearby plant sale. It was hard not to buy fruit trees that spring—and hard to stop once we’d started. Who wouldn’t want a mess of peaches, plums, cherries, quince? A fruit tree is an investment in happiness, in sweetness, in jam. Every time I considered the potential, I couldn’t say no.
When our spring buying spree was over, we had four cherry trees, one peach, a pluot, a quince, a persimmon, an Italian prune plum—and one final pear, to make sure we would have both golden and brown fruit in the fall. Orchard House, indeed.
Jenny may have guided our design plan, but it was still daunting to place the trees in the ground. You had to look at this stick of a sapling and imagine it big, imagine it in ten years, in fifty. This is the challenge of gardening: to see what is there now and to allow for what will grow. It is an exercise in imagination, in hope, in faith.
My mother was not very good at it. Hope and faith have never been her gig.
“Oh, no—that’s not the right spot.” I had arrived at the garden, after a day of work at home, to find my mom had plantedthe peach tree. “It’s too close to the pear—see how it throws off the whole circle? It needs to be planted here.” I strode a couple of yards to the left.
“I thought we would put the cherry there.”
“The cherry should go here.” I paced out a few more yards to the side and stood there. “This way, when it grows, the canopy won’t run into that apple tree.”
When I closed my eyes, I could see it—the trees bigger, the open meadow ringed by leafy green, shade where now there was just sun.
My mother couldn’t see it—she has never been one to gamble on what was not already there. She deals in absolutes: bills, deadlines, hard work. But here, at least, she trusted me.
She shrugged. “Okay, we’ll move it.”
Neither of us was digging the holes for the fruit trees. That task fell to Don, a man my mother had hired to do some odd jobs around the house and yard. He was the one who had to dig yet another large hole—about four feet across—to move the peach tree into. When he heard the news, he shrugged; he was being paid by the hour.
My mother had done some renovations to the house when she moved in. The hardwood floors were refinished, the downstairs wet bar taken out, and new carpeting and flooring laid throughout. The upstairs layout would always be odd, but the one eyesore that remained was the bathroom.
I suggested gutting the narrow upstairs bath and
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