On the Fence

At the end of the road where I grew up is a proud old pecan orchard. It has been there for as long as anyone can remember. Its solid trunks and mighty limbs clutching tightly to tough, brown thin-shelled pecans, greet everyone as they turn down the lane. Surrounding the orchard is an ancient but sturdy wood and wire fence, tangled in vines in some places, its gnarly posts steeped deep in the earth. This is the orchard of dreams. Recall the orchard scenes from your familiar childhood books: where the sleeping beauty is found by her beloved prince, where Rip Van Winkle awakens from a deep sleep under the shade of a towering tree. (Ignore the taunting apple-throwing trees from The Wizard of Oz!)

The trees here in this particular orchard are over a hundred years old, and they wear their age well. They only ask for good rains, warm sunshine-filled days, some selective winter pruning of branches, and willing harvesters in the fall. The ground under the trees is always neatly mown. Your eyes savor the precision and care made by someone else who also cares about this orchard; you begin to realize, too late, the efforts made by a dedicated person or crew to carefully edge along each tree, skimming around the fencerow.

Living in the city, I don't see orchards on a daily basis anymore, and I sorely miss that. This one orchard is my personal Stonehenge; I don't know how it got there, but it's as old as time and quiets visitors by its almost spiritual endurance.

I rely on the orchard to be there, to welcome me back each time, to say, "Yes, we are still here. Some things don't change." Often, I scan the old fence for any birds' nests that might be tucked away. On warm nights, I open the car windows to sniff out the elusive fragrance of honeysuckle.

I went home again recently. The rugged fence, put up so many years ago, and mended carefully over the years, has been taken down. I process what my eyes don't want to see, even though the road is dark and the sun has long set. This loss seeps into my bones, and the car slowly crawls the rest of the mile-long journey home. I know that the time is coming soon, sooner than anyone would like, when this orchard will be gone, the solid and lovely trees ripped up crudely by their roots, the rich earth indifferently paved over.

So beats the drum of progress.

How I spent my Labor Day weekend . . .

. . . (and what I try to remember daily . . . and how thankful I am for the people who are gentle with me.)

I stumbled across this gem from George Washington Carver, while reading with my Dad earlier today. . . what an eloquent and compassionate expansion of the Golden Rule!

"How far you go in life depends on your being tender with the young, compassionate with the aged, sympathetic with the striving and tolerant of the weak and strong. Because someday in your life you will have been all of these. "

Be well.