海角大神

When patience bears fruit

Not a lot of fruit trees grow well in Maine. Apples do magnificently, as my monumental, umbrellalike Cortland will attest. Cherries and pears make a grudging go of it, but only the occasional peach is able to put forth, if planted in a warm pocket on high ground. And then there鈥檚 the plum. Perhaps it was the memory of me happily scarfing down ripe, sweet plums in my New Jersey childhood that inspired me, seven years ago, to plant a hardy variety called a Mount Royal in my backyard. To my satisfaction, it thrived.

It was a long wait, however, for one tentative blossom to appear 鈥� six years to be exact. I did everything possible to protect and encourage the little white flower鈥檚 tender petals, but to no avail: That blossom was only a preliminary feeler, and it soon fell apart, with no fruit to follow.

Then came year No. 7. By spring, the tree was studded with flower buds, which soon opened into a riot of snowflakelike blossoms. Pay dirt! I was so elated that, on the morning of the eruption, I dragged my 16-year-old son out of a deep sleep to bear witness to it. (He yawned and returned to bed.)

Needless to say, I doted on my tree and rejoiced in the prospect of the bounty it would deliver. I pruned, I mulched, I fertilized, I even spoke to it endearingly, already salivating as I anticipated the sweet, sweet plums to come.

There was only one minor disappointment. A good 20% of the crop fell victim to a pest called plum curculio, which leaves a tiny, smile-shaped incision on the developing plums, as if taunting the tree鈥檚 caretaker. But that still left a sizable harvest 鈥� although even here, a large number of plums didn鈥檛 quite make it from tree to basket, because I simply couldn鈥檛 control myself. (The words 鈥渟ugar鈥� and 鈥減lum鈥� were meant for each other.)

One detail I haven鈥檛 mentioned is that I live on the banks of the Penobscot River. Generally, this is a good thing, given the sheer beauty of flowing water. Little did I know that envious eyes from that same river had been watching my Mount Royal. And so, arising one warm morning in autumn, postharvest, I went outside and noted that the scene in my backyard looked somehow different. And then it struck me: My plum tree was lying on its side. A foot and a half of stump, still wet with sap, was chiseled to a point.

Beavers.

At that moment, I knew what inspired crimes of passion as I considered ways to exact my revenge. But the beaver was long gone. The only thing left was to deny the culprit its prize by dragging the plum tree to the woodpile, sawing it into pieces, and putting it up to dry for future use in the woodstove.

The agony of that experience colored the ensuing week. Seven years! A man has to be desperate to wait seven years for a fresh plum. But I was desperate 鈥� I am that man who hovers over the fruit in the produce section of the supermarket, rock-hard plum in hand, shaking his head and tsking.

I confided my despondency to a friend. 鈥淚鈥檇 like to plant another one,鈥� I said, 鈥渂ut I鈥檒l be seven years older by the time it bears.鈥�

My wise confidant listened attentively, nodded, and offered this consolation: 鈥淎nd how much older will you be in seven years if you don鈥檛 plant another plum tree?鈥�

That was all I needed to hear. I planted another Mount Royal, but this time I wrapped the slender trunk with chicken wire. I have also built a stone wall along the riverbank behind my home. And I am working on a prototype of a beaver scarecrow.

Hope springs eternal.聽