treasure

I love Craigslist.  It's so full of possibility and danger, like a cobwebby old junk shop with "Caveat Emptor" carved in scrolly dim letters above the door.  You could spend a whole lot of time and money collecting actual junk from Craigslist, but the allure for me is, that in a place as unregulated as this, it's very possible to find a treasure. 

On a cloudless Saturday morning a couple of weeks ago, Father Bird and I printed out our carefully researched list of fruit tree varieties and bundled our babies into the truck.  Our older two children were away at a cousin's house for the weekend, making a group excursion in the truck possible.  We were going to respond to an ad from Craigslist. 

The ad promised, "Citrus trees: 40 different kinds", "Apple trees: 10 different kinds" "Peaches: 10 kinds" and so on.  It sounded too good to be true, and we braced ourselves, expecting at least to have an interesting experience.  We would see what they had, maybe pick up a couple inexpensive trees, and then go to a real nursery for the rest.  They wouldn't, we were sure, have the precise varieties from our list of 25 trees.

Variety selection of any food-producing plant is very important, but if you get the wrong kind of carrots you're out carrots for one season.  Get the wrong kind of fruit tree, and it'll be a slowly-dawning disappointment over decades until you finally rip it out and start over.  Apple and peach trees aren't exactly native to this area, but varieties have been developed that can handle it.  Those aren't necessarily the varieties the local Home Depot will sell you.  Caveat Emptor indeed.  Now you see why we were weird over getting the right varieties of trees.

After an hour's drive up winding, avocado-grove-lined roads into the backcountry middle-of-nowhere, we pulled up at the gate at the address from Craigslist.  "SOUND HORN" said the sign on the fence, but we were cautious.  We climbed out of the truck with our list clutched in our hot little hands and timidly approached the entrance. 

A brassy blonde woman with leathery skin strode up to us, pried the list from our grasp, and began shouting commands in Spanish.  Before we knew it, a utility vehicle with a truck bed (she called it a "golf cart") whizzed up beside us, we were packed in next to our meek-looking helper like sardines, and swept away deep into the silence of the nursery.  We careened down potholed dirt roads between pots of trees, pots of roses, pots of birds-of-paradise, until we stopped, in the middle of the road, at the place where the fruit trees lived. 

Our assistant jumped out, asked what the first tree on the list was, and plunged away down a side path into the trees.  Left alone, Father Bird and I blinked at each other, wondering what in the world we'd gotten into.  The quiet was dense, like the walls of plants all around us.  Our children squirmed to get down.  The man returned with a Fuji apple tree.  What did we want next?  A Granny Smith?  Be right back.

This went on and on, until the back of the cart was full, and our list was neatly checked off.  Other patrons had come by now, with carts full of irises and verbenas.  We zoomed back down the path to the entrance, paid up, loaded our loot in the back of the truck, and left, shaking our heads in wonder at the odd efficiency of the whole operation.  They had every variety of every tree we'd asked for, except for cherries, which they'll have in January. 

I thought, at the time, what a shame that they didn't have everything we'd wanted, but now I realize how insidiously clever it was, whether the cleverness was intended or not.  We'll have to go back in January for cherries, it's true.  But now we think we ought to have a couple of olive trees.  Some artichokes, too, and blueberries.  Raspberries and asparagus as well.  Hm.  It's a long time till January, and our truck bed (and yard) is only so big. 

Over the next couple of weeks we planted, and planted, and planted, until my hands were raw from digging holes and scratched all over from cutting and folding chicken wire to thwart root-eating gophers.   But now my shovel is idle and there's nothing left to do but wait for the trees to do their thing. 

How many days till January?

~MB~

Comments

[Emily]

This is awesome! I have such a mental picture of y'all in the "golf cart" whizzing down a little path, wind in your hair, life before your eyes. In my mental picture, the little cart talks with a French accent and his name is Guido.