The Human Thing
The ground beneath the big peach tree is littered with the bodies of little, gonna-be peaches, except now they’re on the ground and won’t become peaches. It’s what happens when big rains, like the one’s we had this past weekend, come pelting down in hard falling torrents. Little peaches get knocked off trees. Except now I have two trees with fruit, so the summer harvest seems safe. There are peaches on the ground but plenty of peaches still on the trees.
The thinning of the crop is a good thing. It will result in larger, juicer peaches, and the branches will have less weight to carry because the trees only bloom on year old wood and it’s tender and can break under the weight of its offspring. Theoretically, it’s something the owner of the tree should be doing, but I never could bring myself to pull peaches off my tree before their time. Too soft hearted, I guess, or just not diligent enough. More the latter, I think.
At any rate, when all was said and done, by the time the sun shone on Sunday my peach trees were light a load and my two new rain gauges reported nearly four inches of rain since last Friday afternoon. I hear we’re still behind for the year, but I, along all my plants love the four inches and will celebrate the bounty. I believe they call that living in the moment. It’s hard for humans to do it, especially as we age, because the past is such fertile ground for wandering. But the peach tree will spend no time at all lamenting the fallen but rather pour it’s energy into the fruit that stayed behind. I’m giving that approach a shot, in my meandering less than diligent way. Seems the human thing to do. Imperfect, but trying.
John W. Wilson is the author of The Long Goodbye: A Caregiver’s Tale