Orchard House: How a Neglected Garden Taught One Family to Grow by Tara Austen Weaver Page B
Authors: Tara Austen Weaver
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the citrus and stirring and some lazy daydreaming as well, but by the end I had twelve jars of jam, lined up and gleaming golden in the light.
That night I went to a literary event at a local bar. As I looked around the crowd of people in designer glasses and hip clothing I had an odd thought:
None of you made food today
. I feltproud and productive in a way I hadn’t in a long time. Like winter might come and the winds might howl, but I had made jam for my people, and whatever happened we would be all right.
I knew each of these trees in my mother’s orchard would provide for many. It might just be jam, or applesauce, or canned pears, but the winter could come, and even if the power went out and the roads were snowed under, I would have food for my people. We would be all right.
—
One by one, the trees were all planted, though my mother and I rarely agreed on a location. Don was forced to re-dig more than a few holes, until one day my mother called on the phone.
“Can you come up here? Don refuses to dig any more tree holes until you make sure it’s in the right place.” I was still trying to envision the big picture, to see what the orchard would grow into.
When I truly stepped back and tried to see the big picture, however, it didn’t always make sense. I may have yearned for a harvest, but my mother was in her seventies. By all rights she should have been slowing down, having a smaller and simpler life. Instead she was taking on a huge garden project, living alone in a house larger than any she had lived in before. I understood her urge to give the girls a garden, but surely a small and manageable yard filled with flowers and vegetables would do the same job. Did we really need an orchard? I confessed these concerns to my permaculture teacher.
“Your mom is in the legacy phase of her life,” Jenny said. And maybe she was right.
Maybe this whole garden was about what we leave behind, how we are remembered. My mother would not live to see the fruit trees we were planting come to full maturity. She would not see the leafy canopy they would eventually develop; she would never see these small cherry saplings covered in fruit.And still, she planted them. It reminded me of a Martin Luther quote I’d once heard: “Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, I would still plant my apple tree.”
My mother knew all this too. The final tree we planted was a persimmon, an unusual choice for a backyard fruit tree, perhaps, but we both love them from our time spent in Asia. There persimmons are common, shiny, green-leafed trees hung with bright orange fruit like small lanterns. In the fall the fruit is dried to make a popular snack. It is not uncommon to walk through the streets in Japan and Korea and see strings of orange persimmons hung from upstairs windows, drying in the autumn sun.
There were always a few old persimmon trees that went unharvested—deep in the countryside where farmhouses had sometimes been abandoned. I loved to see them after the season’s first snow. The dark branches threw a stark relief against the white, and the brilliant orange fruit floated among them, often with a tiny cap of snow.
We planted our persimmon at the top of the side yard, in a spot that had held a dead cherry tree. It seemed right to put it there. I knew that when the fruit grew, we would pick it long before the first snow of winter fell in Seattle, but still, it made me feel happy and nostalgic for Japan.
Persimmon trees take years to bear. Unlike the cherry and plum and peach we planted, which had a good chance of producing small crops within a few years, the persimmon would take at least five years before it flowered or fruited, maybe seven.
“Well,” my mom said when we had patted the last shovelful of soil around the base of the small sapling and stood back looking at the twiggy tree. “
I
may never get to taste any of these persimmons—but you better enjoy them for me.”
I put my arm around
That night I went to a literary event at a local bar. As I looked around the crowd of people in designer glasses and hip clothing I had an odd thought:
None of you made food today
. I feltproud and productive in a way I hadn’t in a long time. Like winter might come and the winds might howl, but I had made jam for my people, and whatever happened we would be all right.
I knew each of these trees in my mother’s orchard would provide for many. It might just be jam, or applesauce, or canned pears, but the winter could come, and even if the power went out and the roads were snowed under, I would have food for my people. We would be all right.
—
One by one, the trees were all planted, though my mother and I rarely agreed on a location. Don was forced to re-dig more than a few holes, until one day my mother called on the phone.
“Can you come up here? Don refuses to dig any more tree holes until you make sure it’s in the right place.” I was still trying to envision the big picture, to see what the orchard would grow into.
When I truly stepped back and tried to see the big picture, however, it didn’t always make sense. I may have yearned for a harvest, but my mother was in her seventies. By all rights she should have been slowing down, having a smaller and simpler life. Instead she was taking on a huge garden project, living alone in a house larger than any she had lived in before. I understood her urge to give the girls a garden, but surely a small and manageable yard filled with flowers and vegetables would do the same job. Did we really need an orchard? I confessed these concerns to my permaculture teacher.
“Your mom is in the legacy phase of her life,” Jenny said. And maybe she was right.
Maybe this whole garden was about what we leave behind, how we are remembered. My mother would not live to see the fruit trees we were planting come to full maturity. She would not see the leafy canopy they would eventually develop; she would never see these small cherry saplings covered in fruit.And still, she planted them. It reminded me of a Martin Luther quote I’d once heard: “Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, I would still plant my apple tree.”
My mother knew all this too. The final tree we planted was a persimmon, an unusual choice for a backyard fruit tree, perhaps, but we both love them from our time spent in Asia. There persimmons are common, shiny, green-leafed trees hung with bright orange fruit like small lanterns. In the fall the fruit is dried to make a popular snack. It is not uncommon to walk through the streets in Japan and Korea and see strings of orange persimmons hung from upstairs windows, drying in the autumn sun.
There were always a few old persimmon trees that went unharvested—deep in the countryside where farmhouses had sometimes been abandoned. I loved to see them after the season’s first snow. The dark branches threw a stark relief against the white, and the brilliant orange fruit floated among them, often with a tiny cap of snow.
We planted our persimmon at the top of the side yard, in a spot that had held a dead cherry tree. It seemed right to put it there. I knew that when the fruit grew, we would pick it long before the first snow of winter fell in Seattle, but still, it made me feel happy and nostalgic for Japan.
Persimmon trees take years to bear. Unlike the cherry and plum and peach we planted, which had a good chance of producing small crops within a few years, the persimmon would take at least five years before it flowered or fruited, maybe seven.
“Well,” my mom said when we had patted the last shovelful of soil around the base of the small sapling and stood back looking at the twiggy tree. “
I
may never get to taste any of these persimmons—but you better enjoy them for me.”
I put my arm around
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