There
are no fruit trees on this property, but there are two trees behind
us, planted just against the fence and hanging over it, which to our
delight turned out to be an apple tree and a pear tree. We left two
kinds of apple (yellow transparent and red Gravenstein), Italian
plum, and apricot trees at our old house. We knew we would miss
them.
It
was a happy surprise last year to find that we had apples growing in
the big tree on the street side, on what was at that point a vacant
property. I glanced up into the branches one day as I went out back,
went closer to peer up into the tree, and came in to report apples
forming.
We
had thought it was simply a pretty flowering tree that was identical
to so many others in the neighborhood, planted long ago. (I still
don’t know what those are, except that we have one.)
As
we monitored that tree and watered it over the fence (after all, we
were going to get the fruit) we wondered what kind of apple it was.
There are so many varieties. I decided that it was probably either a
yellow or green type, but I didn’t know for sure; all we could
do was water and watch.
Then
one day the light struck the branches just right, and I was stunned.
I waited several days until I was sure, then drew my husband outside.
The tree was a yellow transparent, of all the apples in the world.
We had to add that to our list of blessings, things Heavenly Father
knew when He brought us exactly here.
Yellow transparent trees came from Russia, and they withstand cold winters. Here the
apples are still a little green, but starting to drop on the ground. The tree was loaded this year. This is a week before picking.
Yellow
transparents are an old time cooking apple. They’re tart and
very soft. You might — might — find some someplace at a
farmer’s market or an orchard’s own stand, but they
aren’t grown commercially because they don’t hold up to
shipping. You can find the trees to buy if you search.
They
are my husband’s very favorite apple. He isn’t actually
a big apple person, but his family had a transparent tree when he was
growing up, and he loves them. They’re not just his favorite
taste, but his memories of his mother’s cooking and canning.
They’re
distinctive. If you let them ripen completely, they become almost
white; if you let them ripen to that perfect state, they will go from
ripe to ruined very quickly because the insides will start turning
brown. They’re soft and bruise easily, but they have a
wonderful flavor. They also come on early in the season.
I
remember the year that a friend in our ward called; her daughter and
son-in-law had moved into their first home, and she was pregnant and
not feeling well. There were apple trees, and one of them needed to
be picked but she was not up to doing much with them. It was a
yellow transparent — would we be interested?
That
was an instant yes. We went over and cleared out as many as we
thought we could deal with, and came home and started cutting. One
batch started to turn pink in its jars as it waited in the canner
rack for the next kettleful to cook down and be ready.
It
was a little odd and a little lovely as they turned rosy; when they
were done, each pint in that batch was a slightly different color,
according to how long it had sat, hot, waiting to be processed in the
boiling water bath.
That
tree had been planted, pruned, and shaped by a master gardener, and
it was a revelation to pick larger, lovelier apples than I had ever
seen. They fixed up quickly because there were few imperfections.
I’m
afraid our own tree had not been as well cared for as this one, and
it made a difference. But our tree was in an off year, and we were
thrilled to have these apples, no matter what their condition might
have been.
This
tree behind us now is big, at least fifteen feet tall. I have no
idea when it was planted, but it has to be decades old, and it hasn’t
been really taken care of since who knows when. I have neither the
capability in body or tools, nor the right of ownership, to do
anything with it, except permission to pick.
The
city truck came through last year and trimmed the branches where the
power lines go through, but that’s it.
So
when the apples were falling to the ground, I called a family in the
ward with kids who love an excuse to climb trees, and a mother who is
willing to bring them. The apples might have been best with a few
more days, but on the other hand they were coming down spontaneously
as windfalls.
It
was the brief weekend window between the son coming back from scout
camp and his two sisters going off to girls’ camp, and I was
just glad we could work this out at all. With another week’s
delay I think we would have lost a lot of them.
They
couldn’t reach everything. The girls scurried up the tree and
we braced the ladder and passed up an old skinny rake that I had
found in the basement, so that they could grab a branch with it and
shake where they couldn’t climb.
The
apples that fell onto the sidewalk bruised on impact, but the ones
that fell into the grass on that side or the garden on my side
weren’t damaged as much. We used what means we could.
I
had been picking up and picking over the windfalls every day, and
there was a basket of salvageable fruit already. We added a couple
of cardboard boxes, sorted and pitched the bad stuff into the yard
waste bin, and the totals accumulated.
The
mom was going to girls’ camp herself, and I wanted them to have
some apples for their time and help, so I put together the best ones.
Because they were going to have to wait a week in the cool of a
basement, I didn’t want any bruises.
I
asked the oldest daughter Sunday if her mother had been able to make
use of the apples, and she said that mostly they just ate them. I
told her I was glad they enjoyed them, and thanked her again for the
help.
We
couldn’t save all the fruit. It fell before our picking day,
some of it was still a little green when we got it down, and bruises
turned to rot before I got to them. It was imperfect, messy, and
wearing at times as we slogged through the process of washing,
cutting out bad spots, coring, cooking, and bottling. In other
words, it was a normal earth-life thing. It wasn’t without
effort, error, or fatigue.
The
tree itself hasn’t had the care of that young couple’s
trees. I lost some fruit because I couldn’t work on it one of
the days I had planned to due to circumstances beyond my control. I
can’t do the long stretches of cutting and canning that I could
do when I was younger, either. Some of the apples that looked all
right on first inspection went bad because we hadn’t spotted
damage.
Some
shortfalls are inevitable, whatever our endeavor.
When
we see boxes of fruit at the market or farm stand, all that messy
stuff that’s part of the process of harvest and preparation has
already been done by someone else. It’s all sorted, weighed,
and transported, just ready to go. But it didn’t happen by
magic — someone did the work, and culled the damaged ones.
Remember
that, next time you feel like your life or self is a wreck, and the
people you see around you seem to have it all together. You just
aren’t looking at the imperfect messes or the losses that went
before. They happened, guaranteed.
I
got about thirty pints of applesauce, not counting what I sent home
with our helpers. That’s a pretty good yield for a tree that
would have simply gone to waste. It’s been hot, and I’ve
run out of useable apples before I was quite done just having some to
cook and eat. I’m a little sad about that; I haven’t
quite had my fill.
The last couple of apples and some of the 30 pints of applesauce, the fruits of our labor.
When
we bring up a jar from the basement, nobody is going to grill us on
our percentages or wag a finger and tell us we didn’t do well
enough to deserve eating this fruit. No one is going to ask if we had
an acceptable yield or if we did a perfect job at saving every piece
that fell. Instead, they will say how delicious it is, and how much
better than store-bought. We accomplished what was needed.
Our
Father in Heaven gives us the chance in this life to taste of the
fruit of His love for us and the promises of Christ’s
atonement. The tree that was pristine, the tree here whose apples
needed to be carved out both brought the same result from doing the
work that was necessary: good fruit preserved for the day of need.
Our
imperfect lives are always seeking and struggling to find the best
ways and pare out the blots and bruises. That’s how earth life
is. The love and help of God heals all our sins and imperfections,
and holds out to us that most desirable and delicious fruit of all,
His joy.
Marian J. Stoddard was born in Washington, D.C., and grew up in its Maryland suburbs. Her
father grew up in Carson City, Nevada, and her mother in Salt Lake City, so she was always
partly a Westerner at heart, and she ended up raising her family in Washington State. Her family
took road trips all over the United States and Canada, so there were lots of adventures.
The adventures of music, literature, and art were also valued and pursued. Playing tourist always
included the local museums as well as historical sites and places of natural beauty. Discussions
at home, around the dinner table or working in the kitchen, could cover politics, philosophy, or
poetry, with the perspective of the gospel underlying all. Words and ideas, and testimony and
service, were the family currency.
Marian graduated from Winston Churchill High School in Potomac, Maryland, and attended the
University of Utah as the recipient of the Ralph Hardy Memorial Scholarship, where she was
graduated with honors, receiving a B.A. in English. She also met the love of her life, a law
student, three weeks after her arrival; she jokes that she had to marry him because her mother
always wanted a tenor in the family. (She sings second soprano.) They were married two years
later and have six children and six grandchildren (so far). She treasures her family, her friends,
and her opportunities to serve.
Visit Marian at her blog, greaterthansparrows. You can contact her at
bloggermarian@gmail.com.
Marian and her husband live in Tacoma, Washington. Together they teach those who are
preparing to go to the temple for the first time, and she also teaches a Stake Relief Society
Institute class.