I Gave her a Hug

An obituary for a tree

We lost a sturdy friend this week.

On Monday, our neighbor knocked on our door to tell us that our apricot tree had fallen on his fence. His news left us all feeling a bit melancholy. It was hard to lose such a generous friend.

This particular tree was one of the “mature fruit trees” that had helped sell us on the property nearly 15 years ago. And the first year I remember biting into the warmth of a freshly harvested apricot was the year my oldest son was born. I had never had an apricot warm from a tree. It was like plucking fruit from nature’s oven - juice dripping down your chin as you reach for another, and I remember thinking, this is what summer tastes like.

That same year, my husband rigged up a net to catch the apricots that fell from the topmost branches we couldn’t reach. He couldn’t stand to let even one of these orange gems go to waste. Instead, thanks to his improvised catching device, we were swimming in apricots. Almost daily, he would present me with bucketsful and an earnestness to please find a home for them. I was on maternity leave and approached his plea like it was my job.

Apricot almond cake became a weekly staple.

We pureed and froze bags by the gallon, and pitted and halved the firmer ones and added those to the freezer.

We bought the supplies and taught ourselves how to make jam. Little golden jars soon filled the shelves and became gifts for neighbors and guests.

Fresh apricots accompanied our breakfasts.

We enjoyed crumbles and crostatas.

The summer Aidan was born became the summer of apricots. Who knew one tree could produce SO much fruit? Even our dog enjoyed whatever she could scrounge from what inevitably fell through the net.

The next time the tree produced was 3 years later, the year our second son was born. It was as if this tree was in sync with our family. In the succeeding years, she produced only sporadically and began to show her age. Lichen dotted her branches and the sap indicative of fire blight oozed from her bark. She became a home to many thousands of ants. Each year, our arborist friend wondered how long she’d hang on. She had a healthy crop of apricots in store for this summer. Nature had other plans.

On Tuesday, donning sweatshirts and gloves, we retrieved the bow saw and a variety of clippers. I couldn’t help but think of the Giving Tree as I chopped up branches, queuing them for green waste. I reflected on all the hours we spent picking fruit, letting our kids climb the tree and pick their own, splitting the fruit by hand to share with one another. Spending time organizing her fallen branches was strangely cathartic - an intimate way to care for her as we said goodbye.

Aidan came over to help me, “Mom, I gave her a hug.”

As we prepare to leave our home and move to a new place, we all have our emotional dials turned toward sentimental. It turns out that bidding farewell to a place you love brings up lots of feelings.

I know she was an old tree and that the wind was really strong. Lots of other trees also fell in the sudden microburst. Yet I feel justified treating the timing of our apricot tree’s topple as symbolic. I think she was ready to go, too. We are departing together.

Several weeks ago, a friend asked me how you say goodbye to a place, and I’ve been pondering this idea ever since. (More to come on this topic in a future essay.) This is part of it. When you leave a place, you leave so much more than just a house. I’ve considered the people, the mountains, the trails, the smells, the views, the feel. And now I’m adding trees to the list. I hadn’t realized until she fell what a symbiotic relationship we had had with this single tree. Huh!? In the coming weeks, I think I’ll take a cue from my son and hug a tree or two in farewell. I’m learning how to say goodbye to a place.