Last August I moved back near my
childhood home in Michigan. As of late, about once a month my dad and I prune
the fruit trees he’s planted over the years.
One of my more obnoxious qualities:
I ask questions… all the time—some philosophical, some, well, not. If I’m really comfortable with you the
questions, normally contained within the confines of my head, shoot out, quite
unfiltered. So I ask him about
global climate change; I ask him whether he thinks public schools encourage mediocrity; about Ted Bundy’s
wife’s psychological state; whether it’s ethically sound to have children with
the problems that could arise with global warming; why does it seem like when
people try to help others, they often end up hindering instead; where will
Cambodians get clean water when surface water is polluted and the well-water
contains arsenic; who fights to legalize the serving of horse meat; if he could
have lunch with one of the American Pickers, would he go with Mike or Frank?
When we prune, I’m the climber.
Pops moves the ladder and takes the lower branches.
So we trim. I ask questions. He answers,
“Try sawing the branch off there.”
“Don’t worry about that bald spot, it’ll
grow back.”
“See the vertical shoots? Those are
called suckers. Trim all of those off and the tree will put more energy into
the horizontal branches.”
“ The great thing about pruning is
that if you make a mistake, you can go back in a couple of years and fix it.”
"Mike."
So I climb the ladder; step onto
the branches; shimmy up the tree; cut all the suckers, the ones shooting
straight up; saw off unnecessary branches; stop worrying about the accidental bald patches...they'll fix themselves;
and silently agree that Mike would be the Picker with which to lunch.
