Herb Benham: No pomegranates, thanks to Pine Street butcher
| Monday, Aug 31 2009 04:47 PM
Last Updated Monday, Aug 31 2009 04:48 PM
Too soon for fall, but not too soon to dream about it. I have. It's hard not to when you have a pomegranate tree that is as productive as the one that sits in our front yard.
The tree is 9 years old. The first year it had two or three pomegranates. Last year, 60.
There was enough for kids in the neighborhood who either like pomegranates or will when they try one and enough left over to grace the Thanksgiving centerpiece.
It's a Sweet pomegranate tree. That's its name and the name fits.
The tree was a gift from my friend, Bart. A tree is a good gift. Especially when it has fruit. Especially when the fruit is sweet and bountiful.
During October and November, children crack the pomegranates by hurling them down on the sidewalk. Then, they sit on the curb and eat the delicious purple fruit and discard the rind.
They enjoy it. So do I. It's like having a fruit stand on your corner.
This is not the prettiest tree. I like a pretty tree, but a pomegranate is not that tree. A pomegranate falls somewhere between a bush and a tree. Branches grow at strange angles. It's like having cowlicks that won't stay slicked down.
However, just because a pomegranate won't behave doesn't mean it is not going to spend some time in the principal's office. Last year, after the last pomegranate had been eaten, I looked at the tree and decided it would be much improved with a haircut.
My goal was to uncover the rugged structure of the tree. Reveal the beauty of the big branches. Get rid of all the shoots and smaller stuff.
So I did. I started with a crosscut saw, and perspiration, as it sometime does, led to inspiration. In other words, I really got into it. By the time I was done, I had pruned that tree within an inch of its life.
The tree was austere. It was leaner than a Hemingway novel. There wasn't an ounce of fat left.
It looked like a tree in a Winslow Homer painting after the tornado had blown through.
"You know, I think you got rid of all the fruit wood," said my neighbor, Rob.
Fruit wood? Fruit wood is overrated. I had big masculine branches rather than the little, girly fruit wood that was no bigger round than a girl's arm.
What did he know anyway? Just because he was a farmer. Just because his company had the largest stand of pomegranate trees in the known universe.
I knew something he didn't about pomegranates. They're buoyant. You can hang a tin pan on them and use them for target practice and they'll still put out a bushel of sunshine.
Spring came and the tree turned green. Then it grew branches like it had never grown them before. The tree did everything but pirouette and bow. That and blossom. However, summer was still ahead of us.
Summer came. Now it's almost fall. Still no blossoms.
A couple mornings ago, I inspected the tree from several angles, even getting underneath it. There does not appear to be one pomegranate on the tree. I sense that the crop may be light.
The tree is tall, it's green and it's healthy. It has never looked better. All it needs are pomegranates.
This is a year I will remember. So will the neighborhood children who will soon be gliding by on their bikes with long faces.
Don't give up, children. The Pine Street butcher has retired his saws. A year from now invite your friends because the party is on me.
