A few years ago I bought a Fuji apple tree at the farmer’s market. It was a strange purchase at the time because I had no idea where I was going to plant it. Our living situation was temporary, but I was desperately searching for the permanence that a fruit tree demands. So I carted it home with me.
At the time my family and I were living in a renovated fifth-wheel on my husband’s family’s property. We were hoping to stay on the land indefinitely, seeing as my husband would be inheriting it someday. But the house was old and had never been adapted to the present-day. There simply wasn’t enough infrastructure for us to safely put down our roots.
I was told by the sales lady at the market that the tree could probably survive another year in the pot it was in, but it definitely would need to be put in the ground the following winter. Funny enough, this apple tree and I seemed to be on the same time line. I too needed to be somewhere more invariable than the little metal box I was living in. And it seemed to be all I could focus on.
We tried so hard to force ourselves into that hard clay mountainside. We came up with plans on how to build onto the house to accommodate us; we wrote notes, drew pictures, tried to find costs. We looked at everything we would need to do to make the land and dwelling big enough and healthy enough for all of us.
We planted the tree; we protected it’s roots from gophers; we built a deer fence; we mulched.We diligently dragged a hose up the side of the hill to water the poor dear on a regular basis. We did our best.
But it became apparent that the land wasn’t going to support us. The well was running dry, the power that ran to the house couldn’t sustain two households, the space began to feel too crowded, and at the end of the day, it wasn’t ours yet. Nor would it be for quite some time. So when things came to a boiling point, we packed up our fifth-wheel house, along with most of our belongings, we dug up our silly little apple tree, placed once again in a pot (a large one this time), and we parked ourselves on my parent’s property.
This time we had a plan; we would buy a house. We wouldn’t try to grow in a space that was already full of too many other oaks and pines. We needed to find our patch of earth, that was big enough and bright enough for us.
We moved at the end of January. We stayed in our new space longer than we had planned. It only took a few months to find our forever house; we made an offer, started the buying process. But goodness, was it a long season for me! The house had renters which slowed everything down significantly. It wouldn’t be until August that we could finally move into our new home. Our apple tree sat in its pot on my parents’ deck; leaves grew in abundance but the poor, traumatized thing didn’t bear fruit. Who could blame it? I myself hadn’t been blossoming for quite some time.
But then, finally, we moved in.
This home we bought has seen some years, it has some age lines in the paint and on the floors. It has an outdated kitchen, it has only one bathroom. But it has enough room for us: for my husband and the children and the cat and I. It has enough water and it’s bright enough, and goodness knows it has plenty of dirt and space to grow. And the soil is healthy.
Two days ago we planted our little apple tree in its forever patch of dirt. We dug out the hole, we placed our tree inside, we patted the dirt down around it. We joked with our tree: “Will we have to dig you up again? Will we have to move you again?”
And when no one was looking, I went back to the tree. “No,” I said. “Here is good. Here is where we’ll all stay.”
By Land or By Sea 