The Apple Tree
the apple tree
In my first home there is no tree. It’s a tiny apartment complex surrounded by other tiny apartment complexes and one lonesome tiny house. They have a lawn, hidden to me by a tall and overgrown fence, and their fig tree hangs over it, sloping towards our little back alley washing machines. I wait eagerly to see if I can catch a fig before the gardeners cut its draping limbs out of my reach. I never watch that tree bloom, or wonder if the fruit will be sweet. It just is.
We move. An A-frame cabin on the top of the mountain, 6,240 ft elevation, one bedroom and an upstairs loft. The air is dry and warm and sunlight pours in through the glass that stretches floor to ceiling. We call it the fish tank, as very few of the giant windows actually open, so we often boil in the bad ventilation. Still, the house becomes ours quickly. I revel in the change from cramped city spaces to tall wooden rooms. I declare myself a convert from city slicker to cabin woodsman. I decide to get familiar with my territory.
There’s an apple tree on the property. We live in the house for three years without it developing a single blossom. It is small, short, quite stump-like save for a few struggling branches. The previous owners say it never sprouted. The frost kills it before it can even try.
I come home for one summer. I look out the window, I squint, and I say, Mom, I think there are apples on the tree.
Thus, it begins.
the wonder
At first, all I am is satisfied about having a tree. I gather my mother, brother and father and we squint and poke at the little apple buds. We have just come from an apartment. We have no idea what we are doing.
My mother declares it my problem, but I feel at ease. Trees produce fruit on their own with no help from humans. I will have to do nothing but sit back and admire.
the first casualty
I come out one day to say hello to my tree. There are holes in the tiny little apples.
Pecked, we assume. I take it as a declaration of war.
the patrol
I watch the tree like a hawk. I discover the hawks are watching the tree. We spray white vinegar on the tree, drown the ground squirrel holes, and buy a spool of prismatic ribbon. I dress the tree up in countless streamers, in the sunlight it sparkles like a many-limbed disco ball. A perimeter is established.
But the apples,
start,
dwindling.
I hear a certain kind of bird call, and I come to understand this call means I have lost one apple. I have lost one soldier, one point, one percent of my unripe harvest. When the sun is turning the tree into a ball of stars, I feel at ease, but in the hours where dusk and dawn edge into being, I lose numbers. The tree suffers casualties. I run outside to scare away creatures. Many kinds of creatures. Suddenly our house is a landmark on the wild map.
The apple tree has apples. The birds cry.
The apple tree has apples! The deer sing.
The apple tree has apples. The foxes whisper.
the net
For just $9 at Walmart, I can spend an hour getting just as tangled up in this plastic black net as I imagine any animal that comes near it will end up. While struggling to drape it over our little apple tree, my mother and I solemnly agree that we will rescue any poor soul trapped in this trap we’re concocting.
Now it’s the wind who hurts the tree the most. I find perfect apples dislocated from the branches, sitting in the net like a nest. One is just smaller than a golf ball, but I bring it in, cut it up. It tastes like an almost apple.
the pause
For a while, we are content. The apples grow plump. A couple get red bottoms. I can count on both hands how many apples are left. I give each of them names. Sally, Junior, Becky, Richard, Ricky Two, Spots, Speckles, Munchkin, Minnie, Mouse. They are getting bigger by the day. I will eat one perfectly ripe apple. I must eat one perfectly ripe apple.
the hammock
We buy a hammock. We set up the hammock approximately fifteen feet behind the apple tree. When the apple tree is dormant, this is my favorite refuge for leisure. Now, the hammock is a bastion, a watchtower. I cannot relax in the hammock. Every crackle of a stick in the weeds could be an invader. I pretend to read a book, but really my eyes are peering just over the cover. Watching. Waiting.
the prophet
I am attempting to feel peace in the hammock. There is a snap, and I look up with a jolt. I meet eyes with a bobcat. I wonder if bobcats eat apples, but I don’t dwell on it long enough to lose my chance to attack.
With just my look I dare him to do it. I tell him I’ll rain hell. I tell him that I’ll take it all, every square inch of forest, every last hollow tree with animal apartment complexes, every part of nature humans haven’t already put their grubby hands on. We do not speak, but I spew fire. It is the staring contest of the ages. I do not blink.
He yawns and slinks away.
the bird
I am performing my daily patrol, and I spot the nuclear weapon: A house sparrow, belly up in the net. Frozen in motion. Drowned in its own air.
the white flag
My mother and I take down the net. Every apple is gone within two days. The forest has feasted, and I hope it accepts that as penance. I do not claim that apple tree. It’s not mine anymore. It never was.