It’s the most predictable story told
'Out with the old, in with the young.' I'm bored with it.
Hello again! This is little story number two of four in my Substack farewell tour. This one gets a little … agricultural. Just know that I resisted the urge to go deeper (and that I’d love nothing more than to chat about rootstocks, bloom groups and the plight of fireblight and powdery mildew).
Some friends reached out to say the last post was a balm. I’m grateful to hear it. If you think it or any of these could do good among others, please share. Just because I’m ending my time here doesn’t mean I’m done writing.
OK, on with the show.
An ancient apple tree stands on the northeast corner of the Humphrey Road property, kitty-corner from the garage. It’s weathered countless summers, feeding deer, birds, and humans — some of whom I’ve had the pleasure of knowing. But now, it shows unmistakable signs of age.
Lichen blankets its gnarled trunk and branches, and the bark that peeks through has turned a sickly gray. A cavernous hole in one of its thick limbs allows light to pierce straight through the trunk, like a wound left untended.
Most troubling of all, my mom tells me the old tree didn’t bear fruit this year.
I don’t know much about it — what kind of apples it once produced, who planted it, or how many decades it has stood here. Without fresh apples to examine, I can’t compare them to images in books or online guides to figure out what they’re best suited for. Was it planted for pies, cider, or something else entirely?
My mom wants me to cut it down. Its hollowed trunk could collapse at any moment, she says. And besides, I’m planting new apple trees in the spring.
I do know their varieties: Liberty, Harrison and Dabinett, purchased from a nursery in Ithaca and destined to make cider — and maybe a dessert or two.
I plan to plant them on the northwest side of the property, where insects and wind will help them mingle, pollinate and ripen. Using the nursery’s website and a handful of academic resources, I carefully picked each variety to complement the others in a game of spreadsheets that took an entire evening.
Liberty pollinates Harrison. Harrison pollinates Liberty. Dabinett is self-fertile. Each will bring its own character to the ciders I dream of making — tart, sweet, bittersweet — their flavors mingling into something greater than the sum of their parts.
But there, on the other side of the house, will stand their enigmatic elder, alone.
I don’t know if it’ll survive to see another summer. And if it does, I can’t say whether it will bear fruit again. If by some miracle it does, I have no idea if those apples would be any good for cider.
What I do know is this: I’m not ready for its story to end. In a place where so much has already changed, with even more change planned, I feel the need to hold on to one of its oldest residents.
It would be easy to give up on it. The tree seems to have given up on itself, refusing to fruit. But something tells me there are still a few good parables tucked away in its twisted branches, waiting for the right season to reveal themselves.
Back with more soon. See you!
I believe that if u trim it properly, use some "tar" on the holes and wounds, and fertilize it correctly; that it can definitely be saved!! As u should have done first, ASK YOUR FATHER, He did this work for years!