Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.
THINKING OF planting a fruit tree this fall, an apple an apricot maybe a pear—or even a fruitless fruit, like a cherry? Don’t do it. Peaches. I’ve been there. Fair warning.
Yes, it’s fall, and the people who plant are urging you to do so: Give those roots the comfort of still-warm soil and then settle in for the cool, moist winter, they coo. And you have that urban farm-to-table hunger. Longing to say, “Of course, Millicent darling, I picked the apples just before you and Sebastian pulled up. Try them with the Morbier and another sip of prosecco—divine.”
Please, no!
Had I just listened to my younger self, cackling as I sat reading Henry Mitchell’s wonderfully amusing columns on my fire escape-balcony in Adams Morgan. (It was an extraordinary perch, by the way, stuffed with pots of flowering annuals and offering a spectacularly unexpected view of the Washington Monument).
Mitchell, also known as The Earthman, was the gardening guru of the Washington Post from 1970 until his death in 1993. On the subject of fruit trees he said:
“He who plants fruit trees is engaged in fools’ work . . . fouling the air with poisonous sprays and attracting wasps to the carpet of rotting fruit that invariably comes along in a few years . . . ”
Ha ha ha, I laughed at the fools, Why of course you can’t and shouldn’t plant fruit trees in a city patch. Snort.
This was before The Prince and I bought a house that came complete with a twig in the backyard we were told was an apricot tree and fell in love with a vision, which I’ve described several times, of lolling on the porch with friends, awash in wine and plucking perfectly ripe fruit from the tree, sweet juices running down our sleeves our chins our whatnots.
Wasps? Yes. Rotting fruit? Hoo boy. Have I mentioned stinking, slimy, disgusting?
The apricots, you see, persisted in ripening from the top which, by the time the tree was mature enough to fruit, was a good 10 feet above our outstretched fingers.
For several weeks each June—when the thoroughly ripened fruit fell to the garden path—I’d greet the morning in galoshes, hefting a giant trash bag and squishing my way through the foul mess and stench of garbage rotting in the 90-degree heat—a morass that included worms and slugs so fat and well fed they could be barbecued and sliced into steaks.
Did I mention we had what seemed like hundreds of fruit dropping each day?
After some years of this, the tree succumbed to a blight and was felled by The Prince’s mighty ax (actually a chainsaw, but isn’t an ax more dramatic?) while I cringed in a darkened room counting his life insurance and planning a glorious tropical future. *
It was almost immediately replaced by a cherry.
Thankfully, it is not a fruiting cherry; it’s a kwanzan, a tree of such glory when it blooms for a day or two each spring that one could expire at the sight. However, said Mitchell:
“ . . . as a boy I thought them the most beautiful trees of this earth. Later I began to notice that the tree is not at all handsome when not in bloom and its roots are uncommonly greedy.”
Not to mention having a girth swiftly grown vast, with shade so dense that even impatiens, which could grow in a closet, gasp for air.
Had I just listened to The Earthman, I wouldn’t be sitting here contemplating another bout of boy with chainsaw—and revising my life insurance wish list.
On the other hand, from column to column Mitchell often quite happily contradicts himself, leaving the hapless gardener totally befuddled (I’m sure he’s grinning down on us):
The flowering peach he said, “ . . . is irresistible. It carries extravagance beyond all bounds . . . It is somewhat like dogs—if you are going to have great ears and paws, you might as well go all the way like a basset or a bloodhound and not settle for being merely a beagle.”
I pant.
*Need I add that I have not tasted an apricot since?
There are several compilations of Henry Mitchell’s work available. Just plug his name into Amazon and they pop up quite tidily.
—Stephanie Cavanaugh
LittleBird Stephanie Gardens (as opposed to Stephanie Cooks, who writes My Dinner With column on Mondays) writes about her failures and triumphs in the patch of garden she shares with The Prince.
What a lovely story! One I can relate to. You see there’s an apple tree in my front lawn. I did not plant the mostly annoying fruit bearing tree. I bought the house – unbeknownst to me, it came with the purchase. Initially an icebreaker and
quite beautiful earlier in the spring having pink blossoms. But unlike the first year, the apples appeared and not many ripe enough to eat. Only the squirrels enjoyed feasting – they too are annoying. Like you, I see t many days cleaning up squishy dark apple remnants. I plan to chop it down.
I can just see you looking at your Fruitless trees with beautiful flowers……..aaaahhhhaaa while sitting on your porch and eating hot scones topped with Smuckers apricot preserves, no muss, no fuss, no bother…..some chilled white wine too…keep writing Stephanie I love the stories that you tell……more please.
Thank you Jeanie – but I can’t yet stomach anything apricot. Maybe raspberry.