Sandy planted an apricot tree in the front yard several years ago. They've had a few apricots each summer, but just a few. Lots have been lost to birds, mold, and pillaging passers by. Last fall I suggested to Sandy that we prune the little tree, as it had gotten somewhat out of hand. The nursery's description of the tree indicated that it was a dwarf variety, though apparently the tree had never been told thus and was working to become quite a grand thing. Perhaps it was the pruning, perhaps it was the prayers on behalf of the tree (which looked like it was suffering somewhat), perhaps it was peculiar weather patterns, whatever the case, this summer it was
loaded. We began to dream of pink tinged fruits hot from the sun falling into our hands from above, of jam and fruit leather in such abundance it would burst the pantry door. Indeed, I think it's safe to say we had delusions of grandeur.
We've watched the fruit grow from green to orange to sunburned pink,
waiting for the exact moment of ripeness. That's about when the passers
by became more troublesome than the birds. Gabriel woke one morning
(the tree is just outside his window) to a tiny Asian grandma filling a
bag with
our apricots. He was indignant. So he made a sign:
DON'T PICK THE APRICOTS!!! I have to admit, I shared his sentiment.
We'd worked hard to get these sunny little treasures. But then I
remembered I'd been praying for them-- it wasn't really my work that had
produced the gems, they were a Gift. It just wouldn't do to be
stingy. Still, people were picking them in a rush, choosing the yet
unripe fruit, taking a bite and throwing them on the ground.
That
definitely had to stop. So I modified Gabriel's sign by adding
"please" in "nice friendly letters" and glitter. I added an addendum at
the bottom, "If you'd really like some, please ask." Several people
did, and were rewarded with ripe fruit instead of the green rocks nearest
the sidewalk.
Harvest is finally over. All but a few apricots have been brought in, and we have had more than enough to share. Our pantry is full of jam and dried fruit, and we all ate apricots till our sides would burst. Still, I can't quite decide if we should have skipped the sign and let the passers by eat what they would. Part of me says, "Hey! We're depending on that harvest!" because in many ways we are. Sandy and I both needed the picking and the processing of the fruit for sanity's sake. The kids deserve the experience of plucking ripe fruit from their own trees. But the question begs to be asked, Who's tree is it anyway? mine, or His?
One young man stopped to ask for fruit saying, "It's Ramadan, and my mother has been fasting all day. We used to have trees just like this at home-- may I take some to my mother?" Of course he got a bag full. Can you imagine living in a far away country and happening upon the comfort food of your homeland?
Especially after a day of fasting? He came twice, and his "cup" filled twice. An Indian mother came when the fruit was almost ready, but not quite. Her son, who spoke more English than she did, was tasked with the asking. I told him that most of them weren't ready, so there were only a few to be had, but if they came back in 2 or 3 days they could have more. The prescribed time passed, and she was on our porch, pointing and smiling at the tree. After filling her bag, she smiled and said, "Like at home." I wonder which was more like home, the fruit, or the sharing of the fruit? Maybe next year the sign should read in English, Spanish, Hindi, Chinese, Tagalog, and Farsi, "Please ask before you pick, we'd like to know our neighbors better!"
