This is the time of year when holiday traditions slip into high gear and barrel down the straightaway at a breakneck pace.
People spend inordinate amounts of time debating age-old conundrums such as ham or turkey, pumpkin or pecan, and evergreen versus artificial. They reconnect with distant
family members, tinker with wreaths and lights, purchase boatloads of gifts, and give passing thought to time-honored cultural beliefs and religious heritage.
I have my own late-fall custom, a hallowed, personal ritual without which the world would feel incomplete. ’Tis the season for me to head to my west pasture, dig large holes, and plant apple trees. Over the months that follow, I’ll envision the bounty to follow, imagining pies and cobbler, and the gallons of cider I will bottle (and ferment). I prepare the soil, add nutrients my dirt lacks (I’m told it’s phosphorus impaired), mulch, stake, and water with meticulous precision.
My hard work and dedication are always rewarded with the unceremonious demise of said apple trees by the following summer. For some reason, I am unable to successfully grow apple trees. I am, however, a natural at killing them. Honestly, if being an apple-tree assassin was a viable career choice, I would be regarded as the foremost practitioner in the field.
If life was even vaguely fair, I would have a veritable orchard by now; in reality, I have nary a tree. I’ve successfully grown a ton of plum, oak, maple, weeping willow, and even pawpaws. I recently picked four hundred pears from a single tree that I planted back in 2011. (The juice is fermenting into a pear-honey mead as I write.) I do not have a black thumb, except when it comes to apples.
This past year, in an effort to double my chances—not to mention doubling the inevitable seedling mortality rate—I planted in early spring as well. Having tired of watching the deaths of more common varieties—like Jonathan, Golden Delicious, Granny Smith, and the token crab apple—I purchased a species known as Arkansas Black. On paper, it’s perfectly suited to the Missouri climate.
By August, my Arkansas Blacks were pushing up daisies. Due to covid-19, private services were held, with cremation taking place the next time I get around to burning brush piles.
For this fall’s delusional exercise in seedling execution, I’ve purchased Franklin cider apple trees. These are supposed to be cold- and freeze-resistant, as well as heavy pro- ducers, though at this point it would be a trifle vainglorious to assume I’ll ever see a single bite of an apple. I actually spent a fair chunk of change and ordered them from Stark Brothers in Louisiana, Missouri. Stark has been around since 1816, has the best reputation in the country, and offers a 125 percent guarantee if your tree fails to grow.
Considering my track record, a place that offers life insurance on saplings seems a wise choice. I retain a grand fantasy that my Franklins will make it through the winter before succumbing to drought, monsoon, blight, depressive mood, plague, rain of frogs, or behavioral disorder. A part of me knows this is highly unlikely, but the sights and sounds of our festive months give me a sense of hope and optimism, even if it’s of the false and misplaced kind.
Setting low expectations may be the key to contentment.
This article was orginally published in the November/December 2021 issue of Missouri Life.
