He Had Me Over A Barrel

When I was a little girl, my Granny lived on a busy corner in almost the middle of town.  When she and my Pepa built this house, the main street upon which the house was perched was a dirt road.  Far cry from the buzzing traffic screaming by at a blurry pace now.  I don’t remember my Pepa, he passed when I was a toddler, but I knew my Granny and spent many a night in that little light green house. 

It wasn’t a large house by any stretch, but to me, then, it was expansive.  Hardwood floors in the bedrooms, carpet in the living room.  (covering those gorgeous hardwoods.  Who thought that was a good idea?!?!)  The floorplan was such that you could walk a complete circle through the house, which I and the cousins did a million times.  Probably got yelled at a million times. It smelled of mothballs, had a window unit air conditioner, a screened back porch full of potted plants, and a carport with dank,  scary closets.  Three small bedrooms and one bath, it was cream of the crop when it was built, I’m sure.  Colorful tile in the kitchen and bath and the most mid-century-modern furniture you’ve ever seen. 

The lot was filled with azaleas, camellias, dogwoods, loamy sand –  and a sand pear tree in the back yard. 

My Granny was a good grandmother, if not very touchy-feely-lovey-dovey.  I don’t necessarily remember crawling up in her lap, crawling into bed with her,  or terribly many kisses, but I do know that she took the best care of all us cousins, and we were well fed and well looked after.  She worked us hard, and rewarded us our due.  And let us bring whatever toys to her house we wanted, and play the old upright piano as if we knew what we were doing.  I was never scared, lonely, or hungry at Granny’s house.  I got a good dose of afternoon soap operas, The Price is Right, and Lawrence Welk.  And that window unit could chug some nice chilled air in the hot Florida summers.

Which was most especially appreciated during pear season.

Which seemed to be

all

summer

long.

In my little girl recollection, it sure seems like if it wasn’t the dead of winter, there were pears. And what I really remember is Granny continually fussing about the squirrels eating the pears and making a terrible mess. 

And the smell.

The smell of those half-eaten, fallen-off-the-tree, I-thought-it-was-a-good-one-but-it’s-not, pears.

My Granny made a mean pear preserve.  She made a mean everything in the kitchen.  She was actually a cafeteria lady at the near-by middle school by trade, and home chef extraordinaire. But those pear preserves.  She put up hundreds of jars of them over the years.  Probably teetered over into thousands.  But those pears had to get to the kitchen somehow.  And we were the “how.”

We’d go out in the back yard under that sticky tree and start picking – and picking up.  As soon as the pears started to fall off the tree the picking would start, and last all through summer, I suppose. We’d pick what we could reach, and check the ones on the ground to see if they were still fresh and good.  Usually they had squirrel bites out of them, some of them would be rotted and mushy, and they all smelled ewwy. And Granny would fuss.  The yellow jackets would buzz and the fat bees would hover, only messing with us if we messed with them.  There was a wet, sickeningly sweet, shaded, sticky overload of the senses under that tree.  Memories all locked tightly in my mind.

A couple of years ago, I had the occasion on multiple occasions to drive by Granny’s house. My daddy sold it back in the ’80s when she passed. Over the years each time I happened to pass that corner, I’d use every muscle I had to look deep into the yard and see whatever I could see to remind me of how it used to be. The smells, the laughter, the cold winters on those hard floors. But lately my flight plan had taken me by there several times, and each time I tried to catch a glimpse over the privacy fence that was never there before, of the pear tree in the backyard. It was still there, more than 50 years later, standing tall and full. Ahhh, the memories.

That fall, winter was coming fast, which means Christmas was coming fast. I always mull greatly over what gifts to give my family. We are by no means rich, but we have everything we need, and go get whatever we want. So gift giving can be a bit of a challenge. And reaching deep for the creative, driving by Granny’s house one afternoon, it came to me like a piece of toast slathered in pair of preserves on a winter’s crisp morning. I’d give them the tree. I quickly did my research and found that yes, you can root pear tree branches and start a new tree. But how to trespass onto someone’s property and cut their tree branches, well, that took a little consideration. And I do mean little. I’m a pro at the property appraisers website, so I found out who owned the house. As it happened, it was the friend of a friend, so I asked my friend to put in a good word for me, and I sent the friend of a friend a friendly letter.

It went something like this:

My name is Sharon Brooks, and I am a lifelong Tallahassee resident. My grandparents, Fred and Mary G. built the house at 800 W. T. Street, which I believe you now own. I’m writing you with a request and hope you will be willing to help me.

As far back as I can remember, there has been a pear tree in the backyard at that house. My sister and I spent many an afternoon while growing up helping our granny pick pairs and prepare them to be preserved. Of course we hated it then. But now we enjoy the fond memories of picking those pairs and listening to Granny fuss about the squirrels eating them before we could get to them all. I believe the tree is still there, as I have driven by several times lately on my way to visit my son over at FSU and tried to sneak a peek over the fence from inside my car. My request is this – I would love to be allowed to come cut a few branches off the tree to root and give my parents and sister for Christmas. I chose to reach out to you first before sending a note to the address, as I did not want to frighten anyone or make anyone uncomfortable. If you would like a reference on me, feel free to talk to my friend Jason B. We’ve been friends since high school, and when I saw that you own the property, I sent him a text, as I knew you two previously worked together.

I know this is a somewhat odd request, but it would mean the world to me, and I believe to my family, to have a piece of history that can live on.

Thank you for your consideration, Sharon Brooks.

~~~~~

And then?

Crickets.

So, yeah, he probably thought I was crazy.

But when has that stopped me?

Never.

So I mailed again and this time got a response. Seems like Mr R. had passed the letter to his right-handy-man Jimmy, who promptly put it in his truck console and forgot about it. Thanks, Jimmy. Nah, I’m just kidding. Jimmy was delightful and said he’d meet me at the property whenever I’d like. So the lawyer and I gathered all the needed supplies, read over my webernet instructions one more time, and off we went to Granny’s house. It wasn’t exactly over the river and through the woods, but exciting none-the-less!

It was a little odd pulling into that driveway. It’s smaller now, not just because I’ve grown up and things aren’t as massive as they were when I was a kid, but also because over the years the city has widened both the front and side streets and encroached upon the property. But the driveway is still that loamy gray sandy dirt, and most of the camellias and azaleas are still scattered about. There’s a chain link fence around the front yard, and a privacy fence around the back, neither of which were there before. That felt a little odd, too. The house is a different color, but the front porch is still the same – two little steps and the same red mosaic tile, and metal scroll-work columns. So very 1950s.  So very familiar. So very distant.

We trekked to the backyard and straight to the pear tree. It’s December and chilly and the tree has few leaves, but it is still very much alive and healthy. We reach up as far as we can to pull down branches suitable for cutting, yet fall short of gaining what we really want. It was like being a little kid all over again, reaching, jumping, trying so hard to grab the branch and pull it down to pluck the hard fruit from its lifeline. When I was little, seems like the adults had to duck a bit under the hanging branches. Now the tree is so grown, it’s not necessary. Jimmy rescued us on this one, however. He had a stick saw on his truck and he grabbed and started cutting branches further up the tree for us. All in all, I think we took 12 little cuts from the tree, wet them, coated them in growth hormone, put them in damp dirt, and headed from the backyard. The lawyer took a few pictures of me in the in front of the house, and off we went. I was happy as a clam. Until I realized I missed the chance to get a few cuttings off Granny’s camellia bushes. Dang it. I could just kick myself. Why do I always think of these things after the fact? But back to the point of this long and somewhat boring story.

We took home what we lovingly refer to as “the sticks,” planted them in terra cotta pots, and hoped for the best.  The nights grew cold before Christmas came, and The Lawyer gently cared for them all, keeping the elements from harming their fragile state.  That Christmas we gave my Mom and Dad and Sister their prizes, and they were so very surprised.  Mission: accomplished.

Except, not really.

I guess it’s a good thing we kept half of the sticks, because more than half of them didn’t make it.  But some did, and that’s what matters.  It was great fun minding them as they grew roots, moving them from small pot to larger, and larger.  Watching some of them grow.  It was constant paying attention, and no one did more of that than The Lawyer.  He’s invested at this point.

Moving this turtle on down the tracks now, it’s been two-and-a-half years since we snipped the tree and rooted, and out of all of them we have three sticks remaining.  Only now, they’re trees.  Real trees.  They’re in The Lawyer’s back yard in large pots, being watered and loved and stared at on the regular.  They’re leafy and green and pretty, and in no way foretelling the future sticky mess that will one day be their present. 

So we’ve decided that we’ll keep one, give Mama and Daddy one, and one to The Sister.  Worked out quite nicely, don’t you think?  That day is coming soon, as they are about to out-grow their habitat.  The only thing that makes me incredibly uptight is what to do with the one we’re keeping.  They’ve done so great in the pots they’ve been in, but need to be moved to something bigger, or perhaps into the ground in a more permanent place.  Therein lies my angst.

When I met The Lawyer he had lived in his house about 3 years, and had the local nursery plant a handful of fruit and pretty trees about the property well before I ever came along.  But, by the time I did come along, they were one-by-one not surviving.  I’ve dug most of them up myself.  They just outright died in the ground.  I’ve planted one or two, and they’ve done fine, but also planted one or two that didn’t.  We have bad dirt.  It’s terrible.  I wouldn’t want to live in it either.  There are plants like crepe myrtles that have lived, but they look like crap.  Some shrubs do great, others look like crap.  So I’m scared.  Scared to put into this crap dirt the tree that has been loved and nurtured and stared at.  Scared. Scared as crap.  How many times can I use the word crap?  But, I digress, a crap long way. 

The Lawyer and I have talked about it several times, and came to no conclusion. 

Until he had me over a barrel.

Now, as I often do in these little fireside chats, I need to throw some background at you.  But I’m not gonna do it here.  I’m about as tired of this story as you are, so you need to go read “Matilda Sue” before you finish this dissertation.  Anyhoo, the barrel he had me over.

When Joseph and I get a prize for the other, we send a text: “I got you something.”  Then the questioning ensues. “What is it?”

“Something.” “I’m not telling.” “You’ll see it when you see it.”  And such. 

So one afternoon, out of the blue, I got the text. “I got you something.” 

“Where’d you get it?” 

“Crawfordville.”

I’m sorry, what?!?  Crawfordville?!?

I was perplexed.

Crawfordville is a bedroom community about 20 minutes south of Tallahassee, on the way to the beach.  Why in the ever loving heck is he there?!?!  I was racking my brain, trying to remember what I had obviously forgotten about why he’d be in Crawfordville that day.  I was completely stumped, and of course he gave absolutely no clues.  I had to wait. 

He beat me home that day and had obviously driven Matilda.  She was parked on the grass with the bed facing the driveway.  As I rolled in I could see there was something tied down in the bed at the tailgate end. I got closer and could see what the object was.  I know I’ve said several times in this chapter book that I was perplexed, but y’all, I was perplexed.  What to my bloodshot eyes did I behold but…..

a whiskey barrel.

I’m sorry, what?!?

Of all the things on this flat earth that I would’ve thought he’d bring home to me, I do believe a whiskey barrel would have been about three up from dead last.

Best part, though, is how that whiskey barrel looked in the back of Matilda, especially in Crawfordville. (Again, see my post “Matilda Sue.”) (Also, know that Crawfordville is, well, redneck central)  The visual is one I’ll never forget.  It really doesn’t get more redneck than that.  It all kind of came together.

But, why?  Why did he bring me a barrel?  We walked to the truck and took a look.  It was a great old barrel, in good shape, solid and ready to go.  But I was still lost.  He just kept grinning.  Ok, Lawyer, spill the beans.  Why a whiskey barrel? Put me out of my misery and tell me already.

Oh, he talked about the barrel, told me about how he got it, sang its praises as we unloaded it.  And then  FINALLY told me.  Oh, I’m dragging this out for you, just like he did for me.  But ya’ll are smarter than I am and have probably already figured it out.

The barrel was to be the new home for The Pear Tree.

I’ve never been so thrown off in my entire life.

But is that not the coolest thing ever???  We rolled the barrel to the back yard and right up next to the trees.  So much larger than the pots they’re in now, certainly this barrel would be a wonderful new mansion.  I was over the moon over this barrel. We rolled it to several places around the yard, and settled on a spot next to the garden.  Time to get it prepped.  First the lid had to come off.  Whiskey barrels are sealed TIGHT, ya’ll.  He had to get the skill saw and cut the lid out.  Now, we YouTubed instructions on how-to, but the “real” way to do it was far too much trouble, so the skill saw it was.  Worked like a charm.  Coolest thing was the second he broke through the lid in the slightest, you could smell the whiskey.  Smelled so rich and heavy.  We both stood there and took a deep breath. 

Deep breaths are good for the soul. 

The inside of the barrel was charred black, just like they say.  We may have taken turns sticking the entire top halves of ourselves down into that barrel.  It was so cool.

After we calmed down from being total nerds, we lined the inside with heavy plastic and started filling it with good dirt.  It was easy enough, if not super heavy, to lift the tree and it’s amazing maze of roots into the barrel, add more dirt, then stand back and stare. 

It was perfect.

I never would have imagined such a unique home for the tree, and I had tried.  But, The Lawyer?  Keenly in tune to the exact home the tree needed.  That’s him.  That’s one of the reasons I love him so.  Always a step ahead of me, always taking care of me and everything I care for and about.  Could not have been more perfect.  Now do you see?  See why he won my heart all over again? 

He had me over a barrel.