Can one tree prove itself after all hope is nearly lost?
There are, on occasion, second chances in life. In nature, these opportunities are deceptively endless as each new season brings loss and rebirth, balance and renewal.
After a long winter, New Englanders rely on spring to wake up our bodies and senses. Summer comes quickly to energize our spirits, while fall invites us to prepare for harvest once more.
We enjoy helping and observing the animal friends at Little Pond and our trees are no different.
Watching the cycle of any fruit tree can be both joyous and sorrowful. A quick spring frost contains the potential to ruin an entire orchard if Mother Nature decides to test us with unpredictable weather.
There are also, however, less obvious reasons a tree’s health goes south. Perhaps the soil needs attention, or the rain spring promised vanished by early summer. Maybe the stealthiest little creatures burrowed their way inside an already delicate and failing body.
The latter, being the case with our most remote fruit tree, nearly sealed its sorrowful fate. Full of regret for not giving her attention sooner, we pondered how to help the lone peach tree, our empress of the meadow, as she began to die. Admittedly, it did not occur overnight.
For the past three summers, a crack in the center grew wider and deeper. Ants and other insects built their homes inside, chewing tunnels and passageways with the geographical detail of Magellan.
We watched, day after day, and told ourselves we had to act. But how?
As the summer moved quickly to fall, then winter, each spring promised new life. Until, finally, one cold spring destroyed buds before they had the chance to bloom. Our apples and peaches never arrived.
But for the old girl in the field, this brought terrible, but honest questions to mind.
How did we want to witness her departure from this earth? How did we want our old tree to die?
As humans, is it our responsibility to help the tree retain some dignity by chopping her down before the ants inevitably weaken the core enough to break her? After all, we could use her wood to burn or soak for smoking some meat we will never eat since we just became vegetarians.
Or perhaps a pointed lightning strike could make the decision for us, roasting the branches and trunk to smithereens in moments. She wouldn’t see it coming.
As with humans, no one wants to witness a soul suffer.
Yet, how about the power of nature to renew itself? We like that one.
After our initial triage, we decided on a treatment of nutrient dense soil to pack into the wounds. Like doctors on an urgent errand, we dug a quick bucket of silt, mud, and sand from our brook bottom.
Running from the brook to the meadow, we grabbed our tea tree mix to begin the initial eradication of pests.
We sprayed the inside of the body while ants ran for cover. Over and over, we assured her this was the best we could do at the time, it being our only choice for a body so damaged.
Then, we began to pack in the soil. First, with a small trowel, then, to reach the deeper and tinier corners, our hands worked in the miracle soil like a baker pressing dough.
Finally, as the afternoon waned, we prepared the finishing touch. Like all wounds needing attention, a bandage assures rest and healing.
Laying out a ripped sheet, one that was kept in the closet for years as it was a wedding gift, we began the gentle layering of fabric across her body. In the wind, you heard her sigh as her robe waved like a toga, a testament to her excellent composure.
Patting her bark and offering a hug, we gave her fate back to nature and walked away.
Over weeks, the wet spring provided the fruit trees with small, but bountiful buds. Inspired by her healthy counterpart across the driveway and into the yard, the old peach tree had her own buds, then small fruit, to show us and the world.
Now, as we head to fall, there is no question we did the right thing. Yes, she is in need of a fresh spray and layer, and maybe even a new sheet. We know this because she thanked us with a harvest of the most beautiful peaches any of our trees have ever grown.
And in the night, as you hear them land in the soft grass, you can also hear her whisper in joy, “I’m still here. I’m still here.”
