Nectarine Dreams

And the award for Fencebroke's first blossom goes to … Hardired Nectarine! Sorry, dandelions, you've been disqualified for stuffing the ballot box.

Despite being recently planted and heavily pruned, this plucky nectarine dug deep and produced no fewer than three of these gorgeous flowers (also no more than three, but that's beside the point). Since this is at least three times the production I was expecting this first year, I have consequently adjusted the projected growth of FPG's nectarine division upward. Assuming a yearly growth of 300%, I have concluded that, within a few years, my wife and I should be able to quit our dayjobs, support our family, and lead lives of elegant excess (in fact, we have appointments with several fine haberdashers and milliners this weekend; it's about time our hats reflect our projected lifestyle!)—all on the output of this one phenomenal nectarine tree!

We are now accepting pre-orders for crates of Fencebroke nectarines, although I must warn you that our entire projected crop of 2020 has been set aside for the state of California, which has prudently decided to import our fruit rather than compete.

The Orchard Has Landed

It was opportunistic orcharding at its finest.

A week or so ago, in what could only be described as a face-slapping sign from the local gardening deities (doubtless impatient with my lack of any noticeable progress in their nominal realm), I received both a package from Raintree Nursery and a surprise visit from my parents, in the same afternoon. Both visitations happily resulted in bare-root fruit trees.

From Raintree (those fine purveyors of all things fruiting you can stick in the ground; seriously, if you haven't already, check out their catalog) this was my order of four trees I had vacillated over for the better part of two months. It turns out, the delay was all on my end, for once I actually placed the order they were incredibly prompt with delivery.

And from my parents, a wonderful housewarming gift of two (!) espaliered, combination apples. These babies, for anyone wondering, are the nifty offspring of sorcery and pomology: they are short, stout bare root trees with six different apple varieties grafted onto each trunk, the branches all aligned in a plane so that the whole tree can be sited flat against a fence, wall, etc. and not take up your whole yard. There is no better way to grow so many different apple varieties in such a small amount of space. Methinks my father sensed my growing anxiety over selecting only a few fruit trees and came up with the perfect solution. Parents are just the best.

So at that point, I had an orchard of sorts. The problem was: half of it was lying in a shipping box stuffed with newspaper, and half of it was propped up against the house in a black plastic bag. I do not need to tell you that this is not an optimal arrangement for long term orchard vitality and production. Nevertheless, such was the fate of Fencebroke's tree-fruit legacy for over a week. Because, you know, it can be hard to prepare, plant and stake an orchard while LIFE is happening, and RAIN and SNOW are spitting all over LIFE and BABY is spitting all over LIFE and WORK is flagellating BODY and TIME exists only in fleeting, three minute episodes. So I stared, with guilt and trepidation, at my precious orchard. I pictured its roots rotting, its buds falling off, just another casualty of modern LIFE.

But then, on yet another Monday afternoon initially written off to cold rain, just when I thought this orchard thing would never happen, the clouds unexpectedly parted, birds sang … and dirt flew. The next several hours became a blur of digging forks, spades and torn-up sod. Supervised by our pleased firstborn, Daisy, who perhaps sensed the unfurling of her expansive, landed birthright, my wife and I worked together, earnestly breaking ground at Fencebroke Promontory, and by the end of the day, an orchard had sprouted!

BEHOLD!!!

Fruit Tree Paralysis

I cannot move. I can't lift a finger, much less a shovel, until I decide … and I cannot decide. The cornerstone of this garden — the anchor, the very backbone — is to be a small handful of fruit trees, carefully selected and placed for maximum vitality and production. Once these are in place, I'm convinced, the rest of the design will just fall into place.

So which fruit trees?

As a child, I blithely reaped the benefits of my Dad's orcharding hobby. Come Autumn, I had only to step outside and I was bound to fall headfirst into some delicious apple or Asian pear dangling from a loaded branch (and lest you think this is some sort of metaphor, I cannot count the number of times I actually thrashed my head into low-hanging fruit, and lest you think that is some kind of further metaphor, some of those apples were big enough to raise welts). I think there were around 100 fruit trees in all, dozens of varieties, rare and commonplace, some drooping with the weight of their bounty, some sulking and stubbornly barren. There was no dearth of options. The only difficult choice I ever really had to make, on those October patrols through the foggy orchard with my Dad, was at what point to stop eating apples in the interest of digestive well-being.

But now, now, there are hard decisions to make. I can squeeze only a precious few fruit trees into the confines of Fencebroke North (aka backyard) and so I feel enormous pressure to choose carefully. Each tree must pull its weight, must provide multiple benefits in one. It is not enough for an apple to be delicious; it must also be disease-resistant, compact, productive, versatile in use, long-lived in storage, and attractive, to say nothing of appropriate bloom time for pollination or harvest time for optimal, well, harvesting. Even the ability to imbue magical powers or cure old-timey ailments — while certainly a bonus — is not sufficient to guarantee a place on my roster. If this is to be my all-star assembly of fruity superheros (OK, that came out wrong) I have to consider every combination of talents, virtues and shortcomings to ensure a stellar cast — scratch that — the perfect cast. The permutations are endless; the task is daunting, overwhelming, herculean, in a word: paralyzing. And not at all hyperbolic, I assure you.

And so it is that I live like a lost soul. Every day, poring over my memorized, tattered Raintree Nursery catalog as if it were scripture: seeking wisdom, seeking guidance, seeking some overlooked tidbit of truth that will lead me out of this dark place. I call up my Dad for advice and for a brief moment, he illuminates the path, offering sage recommendations and observations from a lifetime of experience, but as soon as the phone goes dead, as soon as I glance at my madman's scribble of notes — crossed out, circled, underlined, bulleted, illegible gibberish — I am back to hand-wringing and second-guessing. And still, I have not placed my fruit tree order. I have not gotten out of bed, have not looked outside, have not lifted a finger. For I cannot move.