“Yep, they’re dead.”
The confirmation came from the woman at the nursery after seeing the photos Kim shared of two of our cherry trees. It wasn’t a surprise, but it also cemented the fact that we’d lost even more time.
A few years earlier, after our majestic wooded backyard was reduced to a violent pile of splintered trees, we processed the grief by imagining possibilities. What might this apocalyptic landscape someday become?
A vision of pulling fresh-baked pies from the oven, made with the fruit from trees planted in the aftermath of the storm, was one of the first to emerge. The image was so real, I swear I could smell it. And yet I knew it would require patience. It takes years, I was reliably told, for fruit trees to establish themselves and become mature enough to share their apples and pears and cherries. It was for this reason that I became a squeaky wheel, pestering Kim that we should move quickly to get trees picked out and planted.
As I near my fiftieth birthday, I have a heightened sense of urgency. Mortality is more in focus than ever. I hope I still have several decades of life left, but I also know that tomorrow is never guaranteed. Best case scenario, I’ve got fewer years ahead of me than I do behind me.
And so I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about time and how I should be spending it. Am I using my talents as well as I could? Am I wasting too much time on stuff that doesn’t matter? Do I cling too tightly to things I need to release?
Planting a tree, even if not completely from a seed, still feels like a revolutionary act in an age obsessed with instant gratification. Despite all our technical advances, they have still not yet figured out how to make a fruit tree planted yesterday yield ingredients for today’s Flaming Cherries Jubilee.
Whether it’s to produce ingredients for a pie, provide shade for a backyard, or serve as support for a treehouse, planting a tree with a particular outcome in mind is a declaration of hope. You hope the outcome will come to pass, and you hope you’ll still be around when it does.
And when a harsh winter claims your fragile cherry trees as its victim, your hope takes a hit. You feel your odds lengthen as you sense time slipping through your fingers.
Another date that went nowhere.
Another month without conception.
Another year with more steps backward than forward.
Two of our four cherry trees were pronounced dead by the coroner at the nursery. How many years would it take — if ever — before we’d partake of any fruit of this mini orchard we planted?
It’s always tempting — rational, even — to give up.
Instead, we opted to respond with another declaration of hope.
Kim and I headed to the nursery. We picked out two new cherry trees, the sturdiest ones we could find. Although I was discouraged about starting over, the truth remained that planting new trees today was still better than doing it a week from now. Another life lesson here, if you’re paying attention.
I wondered if this delay would prove to be the death knell to my cherry pie dreams. Or would I and my grandkids have dozens and dozens of pies in our future?
We returned home, and I settled into my easy chair to watch a baseball game with my son. Somewhere during the third inning, my wife emerged from outdoors with a gift in her hand.
A cherry.
While doing some yard work, Kim discovered a small cluster of about ten cherries on one of the two trees that had survived. She handed one to me.
I popped it into my mouth and savored it like a prisoner eating his last meal. It was a time machine. Memories flooded back from my childhood, of eating cherries stolen from my grandma’s tree, and of the homemade pies she made from it. It may have been forty-five years later, but it tasted exactly the same.
Every morning, I have a practice of writing down my happiest moment from the day before. “Ate the very first cherry off our own tree” made the cut. It currently headlines this year’s list.
That cherry represented something to me, even if I’m not sure what. Something spiritual, eternal, and true. Not necessarily a guarantee that I’ll make it to the day when that tree produces enough cherries for a whole pie.
More of a reminder that hope is always worth holding on to.
Hope never tasted so sweet.
🤔 I wonder…what’s some hope you need to hold on to for a little longer?
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