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A Tree Grows in New Jersey
A tree grows not just in Brooklyn but also in New Jersey. I’m nothing special, just a 60-year-old apple tree in Northern New Jersey, yes, the Garden State. The owner of the house planted me in memory of his dad, who was an apple farmer. My Golden Delicious apples are wonderful! Local folks know of my history and travel each fall to pick my beautiful orbs of sunshine.
Cider, apple pie, you name it, I can make it. I came up from a seed, just like my parents and grandparents. My great-grandfather led the way back in the 1930s. He and his siblings had the only producing orchard during the Great Depression. They were generous with their fruit as they gave to anyone who was hungry, not like that Wizard of Oz apple tree, grumpy and cheap. They fed everyone! I was planted as a reminder of when times were difficult.
Back in those days, the highlight of the week’s work was topped off by a fresh apple pie for Sunday dinner. When I was a lad, a seedling, too young to produce a crop, I was the playground for the kids in the neighborhood. As I aged, they would climb me, tie old rubber tires from my branches and make swings. I was loved and cherished. I can’t begin to tell you the satisfaction I had watching these kids grow up. Youth was innocent. Although dirt-poor, the joys of a simple existence may be gone in today’s culture. The anticipation all week of a hot fresh apple pie gave hope on Sunday as much as going to church.
At one time, the owner’s dad had a huge orchard, but as years went on during the Depression, he lost much of it. Bank foreclosures, unable to hire workers or till the land himself, his farm shrunk, and worries of feeding his family grew overwhelmingly. When the owner’s son planted me was no longer a farmer, he became a builder, swearing never to farm for a living after seeing what his dad experienced. However, I was planted as a symbol as to not to forget.
As the years ticked away, and I was a sapling nearing the juvenile stage of my life, I gave shade for summer picnics. I also gave shelter from the storms and allowed all birds to nest in my branches and give birth to new life. My roots never faltered, and I stored water when It rained.
My crop increased every year, and soon I was producing more apples than any other apple tree. I was a great landlord, never evicting anyone. They could come and go as they pleased. Sooner or later, most would return with their families and tell of my wonderful living conditions.
Soon after my sapling period, I’m not sure when though, kids started carving their names on my trunk. I hated this, destroying my beautiful bark with crude initials. The owner’s five-year-old daughter was the first to etch into me with her initials, DM. She was barely a sapling herself when she borrowed her older brother’s pocket knife. Boy, did she get a whooping! Her DM was carved so low on my trunk that it was hardly one foot above the ground. At first, I despised this, but in time I grew fond of the daughter and felt almost honored for her to “tag” me.
I aged quite nicely during my adult years, and each year my harvest increased, and suddenly I saw an increase in carved initials. DM’s etching led the way for many other kids. DM was now three feet above the ground, and below her were her four siblings and neighboring children.
My adult years were very fruitful, but old age is rapidly approaching. I turned 50 last spring, and I am showing signs of decline. I am considered an elderly tree. My apple crop, although tasty, is less and less each year. DM’s initials are now twelve feet above the ground, and she is nearing 50 years old. The owner who planted me passed away last summer, and I am beginning to feel useless. DM’s youngest brother is 35; PA tagged me when he was 10. He is a builder just like his dad. He now owns the house that has been passed on through the generations. I am now in the autumn of my years and reaching the snag phase of a tree; I’m near death.
He wants to replant the orchard! Wow! I didn’t see that coming, but he wants to chop me down! I do not understand why? The day has come, and I am being razed. It doesn’t seem to hurt. The owner chops me down, but my roots are saved. My root bulbs will be planted throughout the new orchard; I will live longer and prosper once again.
When they cut me down, they were extremely careful not to disturb the first 12 feet of bark. The bark was gently removed, planed, and sanded down. The 20 or so initials carved into my bark created a bench. Every child’s initials since 1950 can be seen on the backing off the bench.
An engraved metal plaque also reads, “You were there when we needed you, and your roots are now our future.”
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😍😍😍