[Garden Memories: II]
Trees bear so much vital energy; they are too integral in our everyday existence to be reduced to mere set design of our human experiences. Surely some trees can make for a green backdrop, but distinct trees—ones that aren’t tucked into a forested landscape or among many in a grove—like a lone apple tree in front of your childhood home or a weeping willow at grandma’s house or a large fig reaching over your porch, are interactive, energetic, symbolic, and deeply grounding.
The two plum trees on the southeast corner of the property I grew up on live on in my memory. At the height of summer, when bass fishing in local ponds was best, and my only means of transportation was my BMX, I’d often set out early in the morning to catch a few cool hours before the afternoon heat set in. A small tackle box in one hand and a rod and reel in the other, I’d precariously hold on to the handlebars as I zipped down our road and off to another nearby fishing hole.
It wasn’t uncommon to miss breakfast in the rush out the door. A boy hankering for fishing can easily go without one meal; missing two is a bit harder. And that’s where the plumbs came to my rescue. A pocket full of plums bought me at least an hour or two more chasing the next catch.
Fishing was where I came alive as a boy. Time stopped. Serotonin soared. Imagination ran wild. But woven into the tapestry of blissful emotions around fishing is my memory of those purple Damsons plumbs. I can still feel the velvety dust on my fingers and taste the sweet flesh when I think of fishing. The plumb trees are long gone, but they live on my body, in my memory, and in the fishing tales I tell my children.
