Peach Tree No More

There used to be a peach orchard and a little white peach stand with a sign that read "Fresh Peaches For Sale" across the highway from us, and once in a while we would stop there, either on the way home from work or as we were returning home from doing weekend errands. They had some of the sweetest, juiciest peaches I've ever had in my life.

Yonder Spouse and I have always loved fresh fruit, and we've made several attempts to grow our own, sometimes successfully and sometimes not. We've had battles with a disease called Fire Blight the past few years and have lost some trees as a result, but we still have two peach trees, an Asian pear tree, a cherry tree, a couple of Bartlett pear trees, a couple of fig trees, several blueberry bushes, scuppernong grapes, and a persimmon tree that produces incredibly sweet persimmons about the size and color of large yellow tomatoes.

We've been in our current house nearly ten years. At our previous (our first) house we tried growing fruit trees too, with mixed success. This story occurred at that first house.

I should explain a little about the terrain of the backyard of that first house. We lived in one of those subdivisions where it was absolutely off limits to have a vegetable garden in the front yard; it would have been difficult to do so even if we were allowed to because the soil conditions in the front yard were absolutely lousy for growing anything. The soil was a dense clay that held water ("like forever," as my kids might say). I had tried planting a cherry tree in that front yard but the tree drowned because the water never drained.

We had a ravine going through the middle of our backyard, with a creek that emptied into a thirty-acre lake to which our property adjoined. There were tall trees around the house, too, providing a lot of shade and blocking out nearly every drop of sunlight that would dare to venture through the thick foliage.

Our first winter in the house, I built a sixteen foot bridge across the ravine so that we could get to the other side, which was a steep slope back down into the ravine. We also spent several weekends digging a three-tiered garden down by the lake and we planted a bunch (sixteen, if I remember correctly) of azaleas on that hill across the bridge.

Our second autumn at that house, we planted a peach tree on the hill. We tended it and nurtured it and took care of it as though it were a baby, probably because we didn't have any kids at that time. About the only thing we didn't do with that peach tree was to change its diapers and to take it on vacation with us. I talked Yonder Spouse out of having the tree baptized, but as a compromise we did name godparents for the tree and we included it in our will.

Okay, I'm kidding on some of this, but you get the point, which is this: Yonder Spouse loved that peach tree.

Fast forward two and a half years. Yonder Spouse was gone for the weekend. She had left with me a list of things she wanted me to think about doing. She's a very list oriented type of person -- she even writes on her lists, "Make a list" -- and that's okay with me because, if I didn't have the list to motivate me, I would probably sit and read all day long. Well, at least I would have back in the days before kids came along (that was on a list too).

When the azaleas were in full bloom on the hill across the bridge, it was absolutely gorgeous, especially when the bright sun would vividly make the colors come alive. Over time, though, some weeds and small saplings grew up on the hill as well, things such as small pine trees, tulip poplars, mimosas, sweet gums, and others.

Thus, it didn't surprise me to see "weed and chop down trees" on the list, and in parentheses was written a you-don't-need-this-on-the-list-because-it's-obvious remark, "don't chop down the peach tree." Yonder spouse must have chuckled when she wrote that, knowing I would chuckle too.

I started the task of taking out the saplings. I've always enjoyed that kind of mindless task where I can sing songs or think about things while I'm moving in a rhythm, a pattern of steps leading to some final accomplishment. And I've always enjoyed being outside. With this project, then, I had the best of both worlds. I don't recall what song I might have been singing, though likely it was my favorite outdoor yard work song, "Give Me Oil in My Lamp." My sister, brother, and I used to sing that song for hours while weeding the front walk or pulling dandelions or chopping down mimosas. It was my grandmother who introduced us to the idea of singing while we worked, and we soon discovered that not only was it fun to sing, it was fun to sing as loudly as we could. The neighbors only occasionally called to complain, but in general I think they were pleased to see the youth of America outside improving the beauty of the neighborhood.

Anyway, back to the saplings on the hill ... there I was, singing and chopping, chopping and singing, pleased that I was outside and doubly pleased that I, once again, was participating in a man-versus-nature battle.

This felt like a piece of cake. I'd chop down a sapling, take a step to my right, chop down another sapling, take a step to my right, and that's how it went.

"Give me oil in my lamp, keep me burning, give me oil in my lamp, I pray (hallelujah!) ..." ... chop ... step ... chop ... step.

When I reached the other end of the hill, I stood up and scanned my progress. I had gotten every sapling in the hill along with most of the weeds too. I was done!

"Don't chop down the peach tree!"

Those words suddenly appeared out of nowhere, kind of like how the voice of God speaks to Noah in the old Bill Cosby skit.

"Who said that?"

It was my conscience, perhaps -- I'm not sure -- but at any rate, I had a sinking feeling in my stomach that my plans for the day had just changed.

I scanned the hill again, hoping beyond hope that I hadn't really done what I was quickly realizing I had indeed done.

Ouch.

Peach tree, no more. There was none in sight. I had chopped down the peach tree.

I checked my watch. I had four hours to attempt to remedy the situation. I got on the phone and started calling area nurseries.

"Sorry Bud, we're out of peach trees."

"Nope, just sold the last one," said another.

A third nursery informed me, "Our peach trees arrive on Wednesday. Call back then."

You know how it goes, gentle reader.

I finally found a nursery that had a peach tree. It was a small nursery but probably the closest to our house, so I probably should have called them initially. I hopped in the car and drove to the nursery.

Their selection of peach trees comprised one meager little stick that had a remarkable resemblance to the Charlie Brown Christmas tree in that television special. If I had put an ornament on top, the tree would have bent over to the ground.

I looked at my watch and discovered I had three hours to go.

"I'll take it!" I exclaimed enthusiastically, to the astonishment of the store clerk.

"You will?" he exclaimed. "You're not going to ask for a discount or something?"

I didn't have time to barter.

"Nope, I'll take it. Gotta go. Thanks."

I raced home, grabbed a shovel, and in about thirty minutes I had the tree sitting nicely in approximately the same spot where its predecessor had enjoyed its short life in our backyard.

When Yonder Spouse arrived home, I explained what had happened. I knew that being up front and honest -- and demonstrating that I had thoughtfully provided a replacement tree -- was the only thing to do, and I knew that my loving and caring and forgiving spouse would be, well, loving and caring and forgiving.

And of course she was. I only had to sleep on the couch downstairs for a couple of months, and she began talking to me again after three months.

All right, it wasn't that bad. It would have been better though if the tree had survived. It didn't. Within six months it was dead, gone, ceasing to exist.

I'm not totally sure what the moral of the story is, unless it's to warn the reader of the dangers of "whistling while you work." Wives, if you ever put something like this on a to-do list, be sure to put a bright yellow ribbon around the tree, along with three or four flares and maybe a security alarm system that goes off if any sharp metallic object comes in contact with the trunk.

Or maybe I just need to learn to focus a little better.

At any rate, this whole saga intensely heightened my appreciation for great peaches, and I love them now more than ever.