Planting Trees

A couple weeks back we planted two fruit trees: a dwarf cherry and a dwarf apricot. The trees arrived in a much-too-small, cardboard "Stark Bros. Nursery" box. I say "trees", but I have to take the Stark Bros.' word that a couple of arm-length sticks with stringy roots will eventually bear cherries and apricots, and that we did not instead get our order mixed up with Ronald Quidditchbottom's order of "dead sticks with roots". The instructions for the trees said to keep the roots moist and dark until ready to plant, so we threw them in the basement. That's not a joke--it's really moist and dark down there! Next, we had to dig a hole the size of a small Buick to properly plant each tree. That is a joke, though it's sadly not far from true! Anyhow, after measuring a neighbor's Buick for approximate size, I hired two of the deacons I teach to dig with me. The three of us worked cheap, if not hard. (We nicknamed one deacon "Easily Distracted Man!") Three hours after digging in the mud and rain (did I mention it was raining?) the job was done. *contented sigh* And then we had finish the hole for the other tree. I should call the second hole, "The Pit of Despair." We did finish before darkfall, and my back was sore for a week.

And now a word about digging holes for fruit trees:         Don't.

Next time I'll hire some deacons to dig, watch comfortably from the kitchen, and yell helpful advice out the window. I suggest you do the same. As J. Reuben Fendrschmidt-Waller might have said had he been so wise, "Those that don't learn from history are doomed to hear me mocking them over the phone for ignoring awesome advice on deacons and hole diggin."

Back to the story; we had to put all the dirt we removed from the ground somewhere, and the back patio seemed a good place. Now we have a mountain view--well, freakishly large molehill view--from the living room window. It's not as nice as it sounds. We've only had to reprimand the girls twice for tracking a full inch of mud from the molehill, and I don't think Jimmy's even tried to eat any of it. . . yet. We couldn't get to the actual tree planting until Friday night, our date night. So most of our date night was spent . . . wait for it . . . digging. This time I let Elizabeth do most of the shoveling. I just ferried compost and dirt around with a wheelbarrow. After tamping the dirt and carefully watering the tender little trees by the romantic light of our security floodlight, the job was finally done. Thank goodness I didn't agree to Elizabeth's money-saving proposition to buy a dozen trees all at once and save on shipping! Now we wait. If things go well, in three years we'll let you know what kind of fruit tree you should have planted as we enjoy piles of free, delicious cherries and apricots. And when envy and one-upmanship demand that you do plant your own fruit trees, just remember:

Fruit is never sweeter than to those who were smart enough to listen to me and not dig their own planting holes.