There is a giant apple tree just outside our kitchen window (there's one out the kitchen window of every mother's dream house, isn’t there? With a swing and a tree house?) The arborist, whom we practically have on retainer, estimates that the big ol’ girl is about 110, 115 years old. She’s seen a few things in her lifetime. Like the farmer’s sons go off to WWI and the like. After all, Courtland Park has been a neighbourhood for just 65 years. And we Arnold/Ashes have been here for just five … barely a wink in her long, long life.
Which is why it’s hard to complain about the apples. The dozens upon dozens (upon dozens) of apples that drop onto the playground pea gravel each summer and fall, like punishing rain. We looked into takin’er down a while back, what with the rotted core branch and the leafy encroachment onto the roof and the worry about root damage to the foundation. And the apples. But, no — no! — the arborist implored. We can save her. She can be pruned back, her rotted branches cut out (and apple trees have tap roots, dontcha know … no worries about the house). So save her we did.
But not from massive shock. The dead branch, growing from the centre of the trunk itself, was nearly two feet across, and the rest of the pruning was extensive. Mama tree’s defences were tripped, her will to procreate slammed into overdrive. She hailed down endless mini-apples last summer. Gnarled and bug-infested apples that required hours of stooping labour to scoop up and take to the curb in bag after bag of yard waste. If we procrastinated, then plagues of ants and wasps gathered to feast on the fermenting mush trampled underfoot by Sam and friends.
We invited the arborist back this spring: “Can we remove the fruiting spears and prevent the apples from growing?” No. Not yet. The stress, the trauma — it’s all been too much for the tree. Let her try again this year to make an orchard of our back yard. And she did. Oh my, how she did. This year, we counted. 2,300. Two thousand, three hundred and some odd apples fell in the side yard. I personally stooped for 1,250 in just one day (shortly after returning from a three-week holiday to find the ground carpeted with the rotting, earwig-infested fruit).
While I picked up more than my fair share, “apple picking,” as we call it, is mostly Sam’s chore. For every 100 apples he tosses into the silver trash can or yard bag, he receives one coupon (worth about a buck) towards his next toy purchase. As the summer turned to fall, the chore became less onerous and Sam became more creative. Recently, he kicked the scattered apples into a pile near the swing and invented this game.
Which is why it’s hard to complain about the apples. The dozens upon dozens (upon dozens) of apples that drop onto the playground pea gravel each summer and fall, like punishing rain. We looked into takin’er down a while back, what with the rotted core branch and the leafy encroachment onto the roof and the worry about root damage to the foundation. And the apples. But, no — no! — the arborist implored. We can save her. She can be pruned back, her rotted branches cut out (and apple trees have tap roots, dontcha know … no worries about the house). So save her we did.
But not from massive shock. The dead branch, growing from the centre of the trunk itself, was nearly two feet across, and the rest of the pruning was extensive. Mama tree’s defences were tripped, her will to procreate slammed into overdrive. She hailed down endless mini-apples last summer. Gnarled and bug-infested apples that required hours of stooping labour to scoop up and take to the curb in bag after bag of yard waste. If we procrastinated, then plagues of ants and wasps gathered to feast on the fermenting mush trampled underfoot by Sam and friends.
We invited the arborist back this spring: “Can we remove the fruiting spears and prevent the apples from growing?” No. Not yet. The stress, the trauma — it’s all been too much for the tree. Let her try again this year to make an orchard of our back yard. And she did. Oh my, how she did. This year, we counted. 2,300. Two thousand, three hundred and some odd apples fell in the side yard. I personally stooped for 1,250 in just one day (shortly after returning from a three-week holiday to find the ground carpeted with the rotting, earwig-infested fruit).
While I picked up more than my fair share, “apple picking,” as we call it, is mostly Sam’s chore. For every 100 apples he tosses into the silver trash can or yard bag, he receives one coupon (worth about a buck) towards his next toy purchase. As the summer turned to fall, the chore became less onerous and Sam became more creative. Recently, he kicked the scattered apples into a pile near the swing and invented this game.
No complaints at this point. And maybe the fruiting spears will come off next year. Mind you, Sam’s new tree house is screwed into the four remaining large branches—the perfect platform area that was created by the massive pruning. So what do you suppose the arborist will say about Mama Apple Tree’s stress next year? (Oh well, there’s always “Waaa-cha!”)
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