THE PRUNEFUL TRUTH
By
Lucille Bellucci
My neighbors’ gardens sport glorious lilac clusters, and I wanted my tree who (to me trees are “who’s, not what’s) to be like that. I researched the Almighty Internet and found detailed instructions: “In late fall, cut away twiggy growths. Strive for uniform shaping of branches. Spread 2 pounds of bone meal around base and water.”
I followed directions, watered, and looked forward to spring.
In March the pretty heart-shaped leaves looked to be a joyous prelude to masses of lilac blooms. In April the leaves grew thicker. Around the middle of May, I searched in vain for blossom buds at the tops. By early June I knew there were to be no flowers, while lilac trees on other properties flaunted them en masse. One tree was even thick with deep blue ones.
Back to the Internet, I clicked on another pruning authority and read this: “Prune lilacs after they have bloomed in the spring. Do not prune much later than summer or you will be cutting away buds for the next year.”
I stared at the page and slowly grew a burn. Very funny. Hilarious. I went to find the joker who had posted the first advice and give him a poke to remember, but his site was gone. I wondered how many lilac-tree owners he had caught and were reminded that not everything found on the Internet was Gospel.
I would have to wait for my tree to recover and then do it right next time. My gardening skills are not all that bad. The one tomato plant is loaded with little beginnings helped, I hope, with regular dosings of liquid fertilizer. The fourteen green nubs are fattening nicely and promise to be sweet and juicy when ripe. – or not. My tomato crops are a matter of chance, weather, and fertilizer. Buying honest manure is not as easy a proposition as in earlier years, and the liquid kind often fall short of guaranteed performance. But recently I came upon a stack of the real thing outside the Whole Foods market. I liked the sign leaning against it, too: “Get a load of this sh—.”
Really. How droll.
I drove home, the load in the trunk a portent of a bountiful yield next season.
California is in the throes of a fourth drought year and my former lawn could not be in sadder shape. It is parched and patchy, yet happy looking for its carpet of dandelions. I find myself actually enjoying the sight while experiencing a sense of guilt about the crop propagating itself to the left and right of me. There are neighbors who cannot find it in themselves to appreciate wildflowers and must set to pulling the innocent, free things out by their roots. Oxalis, for example. Entire hillsides are delightfully covered with their buttery abundance where there is no human interference.
Inevitably, the human next door to me dropped in and caught sight of my field of dandelions, expressed horror and a bit of resentment at my thoughtlessness. The comments were expressed with a mild laugh, but I understood their message.
And so I purchased a bottle of weed killer and began spraying. The contents lasted about as long as my right hand, which developed such a cramp I could not handle my dinner fork. Obviously, buying twenty more bottles and using them was out of the question.
Putting off a plan of action, I allowed myself to be distracted by my rose bush, a sweet variety named Louis d’Or. It had grown yards beyond its imaginary borders and now was enjoying congress with the lemon tree. I saw it was time for some discipline and got out my lopper and went to work. I strove for a rounded shape, but there were still some tender buds about to open and I could not bear to chop them off. The little beings were already broadcasting their scent, for there were bees hovering nearby, hopeful of their imminent blossoming.
When I was done, the bush had left the clutches of the lemon tree but its final shape resembled a coffee mug with five handles, the Louis d’Or buds riding bravely upon them. All I could think of was how happy the bees were going to be.
What did I care that the entire yard has a lopsided look? The south side flourishes unchecked with wild plums bowed with fruit laced with blackberry vines drooping in turn with their crop. To think that once I contemplated cleaning out the vines! Now I watch the birds and squirrels feasting on their bounty and, reverting to my one Italian ancestor, call out “Mangia, mangia!”
The dandelions have been left for another day. Meantime, I plucked a bouquet of the cheery yellow flowers and set them in a jelly jar on my dining table. They make me smile.
