The Tree Farm
About five years ago, my husband James decided to plant pecans at his family farm on an acre next to an old river bottom, where dozens of marvelous pecan trees already grew. Producing nuts for nearly a century, they provided certain proof that he would succeed.
The First Year
That fall James mail ordered a few pounds of native pecans. He wintered them in the freezer and then transferred them into bags of special sand. By mid spring they sprouted magically into baby trees.
He transferred dozens of these little sticks with their tiny leaflets into pots filled with rich soil. They were promptly devoured by squirrels.
So James built sturdy squirrel-proof cages out of scrap wood and chicken wire, and refilled his pots. Soon we had two hundred young pecans thriving behind our garage. Each evening he watered them, petted them, and told them that if they’d just kept growing, someday they would be 100-foot beauties. We dug postholes, strung fence, and laid irrigation line. He took forty of his best saplings and spaced them in perfect rows across the acre.
Little rain fell that summer and the irrigation system failed. The trees withered, so James replanted.
The Second Year
Hungry cows broke through the fence and every tree went missing. But we still had pecans growing behind the garage and fences can be repaired. James planted again.
The Third Year
There was a mishap involving really tall grass, a tractor, and a batwing mower (some stories best left untold).
The Fourth and Fifth Years
Since most of the pecans were gone, we decided on a new upcoming crop in Texas: olives. So we planted forty olive trees with beautiful silver-green leaves. Then over the next two years, the county suffered the worst drought in recent history. Not only did we lose the olives, the hundred year-old pecans died as well.
Last Week
James said he was replanting pecans again this winter. Did I mention he doesn’t give up easily?
Today & Tomorrow
Planting trees, raising kids, writing books: some activities are worth tremendous effort even though there is no guarantee of success. We give ourselves to these things out of sheer love for them, and a nagging hope that makes us reach for something that might outlast us. Maybe when we're old and gray, we'll have a chance to stoop in the fall shade of an orchard and pick up pecans for pie. But even if we don't, we'll still be laughing about the batwing.