Everybody Gets Hungry

Long stretch, but worth it!

The birds (even Starlings) get hungry.  The squirrels (especially the squirrels) get hungry.  A wise person pointed out to me just the other day that if I was going to feed the birds that meant Starlings were included.  Oh.  But they eat so much so fast that after a flock leaves the tree there's little left for the other two and four-legged critters.  Feeding the birds means feeding all the birds that want to show up.

They can swallow hanging upside down.

Perhaps the Persimmon tree could be called the "Feeder Tree."  It holds a bird feeder bulging with sunflower seeds.  Only 10 days ago it was also loaded with left-over persimmons that we couldn't reach as we picked or that had already been claimed with beak or tooth marks.  The critters just swooped in and cleaned up the fruit.  At least with their bellies full of persimmon, the birds don't hit the sunflowers seeds as heavily and that, of the Things I get to do today, can be put off until tomorrow.

It takes no imagination to see that this guy is full and fat.

Persimmon Panic

The persimmons are falling!  It's not like having the sky come down, but I was totally disheartened. The total crop of my favorite fruit was under 40 last year, and that was before the squirrels nipped them off, chewed a little hole in the skin and hid them all over the yard.  The actual net was closer to 10--from a tree that typically yields 300 or more each year.

Twisted, pixy magic of the persimmon calyx from the tree
that wisely thins itself

There were tiny wax-yellow blossoms all over the tree a couple of months ago.  Hope surged high that things were back on track. What I had forgotten was that the tree does an automatic thinning just before the fruits begin to grow.  All over the ground were dozens and dozens of spent calixes from the tree.  My panicked vision made it hard to see what was left to mature on this grand tree.

Baby persimmon about 5/8" across

Collecting my wits along with the Things I get to do today revealed that there is, indeed, a good crop of green, baby persimmons that will grow into brilliant orange pumpkin-shaped fruits for Thanksgiving and Christmas.

In the Arms of Love

Trees die a slow death.  It's not really different for a Christmas tree unless it's blessed to still have its roots in a pot.  For the others, after the pain of the ax or saw, they hold on bravely as long as they can.

Hugged by the persimmon, a new friend

We bought a tree from a local lot this year.  It was the first time in several years that we were at home during the holidays.  Getting a tree when we're off visiting family in another part of the country seemed ridiculous.  But this year, our lovies came to stay for Christmas at our house. We wanted the trimmings, the smell, the brilliance of a great, green, majestic tree.  That's what we bought--12 feet tall--a tree that would touch the highest part of our ceiling before it was coronated with its gold star.

So when Christmas was over, New Year's Day passed and the needles started to drop heavily, we knew it was time to lay it to rest.  We have several signs in our neighborhood telling of drop-off-for-a-few-dollars-for-charity services for Christmas trees.  But sending this gentle giant through a shredder wasn't how I wanted its life to end.

A strong, loving, supporting arm

We hauled it out of the house and thrust it into the embrace of our now-bare-since-the-leaves-and-fruit-are-gone persimmon tree.  It will stand (with some assistance--Things I get to do today) close to its supporting friend.  Birds will land on its branches.  The rain with bathe it.  The frost and snow will chill it.  And for a time it can pretend it is still growing in the forest.  As the life leaks out of its trunk, the needles will fall, and branches will turn brittle.  At some point, we'll allow it to shine brilliantly again--in our fire place--probably next Christmas.  And the ashes can go back into the soil, the soul of the tree now nourishing new seeds in its arms of love.