Plum Tree.

It was one of trees that came with the house. If I fall in love easily in broader life, it's all the more true for trees. And so with the plum. Even as I had to admit, if only to myself, that it was a problem.

It was tall. I always thought it looked mournful, though perhaps it was that I sensed its eventual fate. The thing was its plums--plums produced in massive numbers. They would fall everywhere, below it and astonishingly far afield. But for all their collective heft, and their power to overtake us, there was never once among them a full-sized, mature, plum. Instead we had these flattened, wrinkled, ovals. Though (to me), still gorgeous in their purple waxy skins.

Much was done for it. Tree doctors consulted; books pored over. And there was much talk--some cavalier, some with wringing of hands. I knew a decision had been made, even as I didn't hear until some weeks after it was chopped down.

I gulped when news finally reached me. Okay. I know, I get it, don't tell me again: we had to. God, why am I such a baby.

I was told then too that it had already been cut into logs that would cure into fuel for our summer outdoor fires. This tradition was started when I married R. who needed a way to participate in our family evening socialising, even as he then had few words with which he could make it flow. Wine, flames and an iron became medium to his message. It soon became law: "I'm going out, but I'll meet you at the fire." "I'm finishing some work, but fire at 8.30!"

For many years now the plum wood provided hot dense heat. Every time it was mentioned that a log was from it, I tried briefly to visualise which limb or which part of the trunk it might have originated. It always felt nostalgic, even as it was stupendous, crackling, hot company.

I think this was the last fire it will give us, though we might still find some lengths of branches mixed in with the other wood.

I'm crap at goodbye.

Comments

[Jeff]

I'm a sentimental tree lover, too. Growing up in rural N.B., I had a slew of favourite trees - for climbing, for hiding behind, and for hanging out below. I grow very attached to my plants as well. Just last year I was very sad to lose a palm plant that I had had since about Grade 7, making it 30 some years old.

And like you, I also have favourite mugs. I usually pick one up during our travels and reminisce about the cities in which I made the purchase whenever I use them. And it's funny as I was thinking of doing a post about them as well(and probably still will). My very favourite one, purchased in Harrods's in Kinghtsbridge in 2000, has had a crack around its base for several years now. Thankfully, it remains intact. I hope your does, too!

[Tori]

Now I'm sweating bullets that the new baby fig's ok. A few yellowed leaves on one side. Ugh.