The Spiritual Gardener: Summer Fruit – A Personal Snapshot
"In early summer, my mother would come home with paper bags full of local apricots for us kids and they were the big, juicy apricots that have a flavor that only local, ripe-picked apricots can have." Photo: David Jensen
Summer draws quietly to a close, and the heat obligingly abates somewhat. We had a few mornings already last week with the temperature in the 60s F, very fresh indeed. It was mild and sunny all weekend, low humidity, a bit of relief finally from one of the hottest summers here, which followed one of the toughest winters, so naturally the garden is looking rather shabby lately.
Saturday, I worked my way methodically through the hedgerow between the two driveways, cutting out all the deadwood and yielding a pile of brush about the size of an SUV. Both days this weekend, I worked at pulling up the vexing, creeping weeds that are infesting the lawn. It is called ground ivy (Glechoma hederacea) and is extremely tenacious, the evil thing (see picture, below). If you see it in your garden, you should be alarmed, very alarmed. Then, for good measure, I watered everything as it has been very dry, and I started collecting cleome seeds to scatter next spring.
What I find myself really missing are the fresh peaches and apricots of my youth. I grew up in a fruit-growing region where fresh summer fruits were taken for granted as part of the natural rhythm of life. Late every summer, my mother would pile the kids into her station wagon, and we would go to the roadside fruit stands in Palisade and on Orchard Mesa to load the car up with the peaches and tomatoes she would preserve and the cucumbers she would pickle.
For days, our house smelled interestingly like a cannery, with the sickly sweet smell of sliced ripe peaches, the parboiled tomatoes and the sharp tang of dill and boiling vinegar for the pickles, with the kitchen full of steam from the boiling Mason jars. We had a room in the basement under the stairs where our freezer was kept, and that room was called “the fruit room” because that is where all the jars of preserves were also stored, glowing red and yellow and green like traffic lights for tomatoes, peaches and pickles.
In early summer, she would come home with paper bags full of local apricots for us kids, and they were the big, juicy apricots that have a flavor that only local ripe-picked apricots can have – not like the sad and tasteless, merely apricot-coloured things we have to buy in grocery stores these days. I am sure the modern ways are much better, though in some not very obvious respect.
The apricot seedling liked that spot and rapidly grew into a whip-like stripling. Eventually, it became a very large tree, whose spreading canopy was more than 20 feet tall and 20 feet wide. And to my childish delight, it always fruited heavily, though I never did anything more to it than find it in the first place and water it fairly regularly when it was small.
One year, much later, we had a perfect season for apricots, and this great tree fruited much more heavily than it ever had before, with every large branch burdened with its golden freight of fruit, some branches bowing down almost to touch the ground. At that time, our backyard was a dog run for a brother and sister pair of standard schnauzers. The female had a weakness for these sweet apricots; she stripped a branch bare as far as she could reach. She was in perfect apricot heaven, a place I knew well, carefully spitting out the pits and, amazingly, she suffered no ill effects from her golden binge.
That tree became the tallest and shadiest tree in our backyard, and I spent many happy hours in its cool shade as a boy, reading. For all I know, it is there still, and I hope it is, despite the dereliction and neglect that our old family house has been subjected to by later owners over the years. But the tree, I hope, still stands, as I say, bearing mute and lasting witness to the way small things in our lives become big things and the way that some of the best things that happen in a garden are not planned or even foreseen or dreamed of.
And so the gardener goes on being humbled over the years, man and boy, and the marvels of horticulture continue to fall promiscuously from heaven or from a brown paper bag of cool summer fruit, held for a brief moment of time between the bare feet of children on a hot summer day.