100 words on the responsibility of being a tree parent
After three years, the tree is taller than me. Inevitably upwards, like children, if somewhat quieter. The stake planted for support, redundant. And this year there is fruit. Two perfect apples: brave and strong. Magnificent. A triumph of teamwork – me with encouragement and cunning snail avoidances, it standing sturdy in the weathers, determined. Now though, I worry: When to pick? Too soon and it’ll be sour, sharp. Wersh. James Grieve is prefect early-mid-September, apparently. Whenever that is. After that, however, it’ll be milder, softer, and altogether less satisfactory. And every day that I dither, the wasps and caterpillars are watching…
