Sunday, January 02, 2005
Missing Mystery
Who ate my persimmons?
Years ago, I planted three tiny sticks into the soggy ground on a rainy Saturday afternoon. The ground was muddy, so it was easy to dig in the clay fill dirt the contractors dumped over the top of the construction debris when they made my yard. These sticks were actually baby trees, but you wouldn’t know that from their appearance - featureless twigs that might have been found under any tree after a heavy storm. It was difficult for me to tell which of the ends went in the ground and which stuck up out of the dirt. Despite the rain pelting my head on that dismal Saturday, I must have planted them the right way 'round since, over the years, three Japanese persimmon (kaki) trees grew from those twigs and have turned into mid-sized fruit trees.
I planted persimmons because you cant get them here in Texas - not nice ones anyway. Oh, sure, there's always a box or two of mushy, bruised eureka persimmons (or sometimes the fuyu variety) in the grocery store around Thanksgiving, but these aren't edible. You can also find them in the Asian markets, but they're not much better. They look like they've been used in place of a whiffle ball for batting practice, not to mention the outrageous price. Always, I see them in the store, pick one up, handle it, feel the bruised, darkened skin and realize that this is not something on which to spend $8. So, I decided to grow my own. It's been a long process - five years to grow a tree big enough to let bear fruit - but it has been worth it... fresh persimmons, persimmon salsa, persimmon glaze on ham, stewed persimmon toping for ice cream... yum.
This year, I had my biggest crop ever. All three of the trees were producing and I was looking forward to getting to try the fruit from the tamopan variety tree. It had always been smaller than the other two and I had not let it bear fruit in previous years. All was well until, one afternoon, the fruit was gone. All gone. Yes, birds always claim a few, that's a fact of life, but birds leave a mess: half-pecked fruit clinging to the tree, fruit flesh on the ground, the fruit stems and leaves still attached to the tree, not to mention the bird droppings. No, these persimmons were gone with no trace. Squirrels, I thought as I examined the branches on my trees. No, squirrels would leave a mess also, and this fruit seemed to have been picked neatly from the trees.
It's a cliché' mistake, I know, to always blame a thief when something goes missing. Usually, you've just misplaced the item and it hasn't actually been stolen. But, looking at these trees, and they way the fruit had been picked, I couldn't see another explanation than someone having taken the fruit.
With nothing for me to do, I wandered back in to the house. Wondering as I wandered, what does a tamopan kaki tastes like? But, mostly, who ate my persimmons?
Years ago, I planted three tiny sticks into the soggy ground on a rainy Saturday afternoon. The ground was muddy, so it was easy to dig in the clay fill dirt the contractors dumped over the top of the construction debris when they made my yard. These sticks were actually baby trees, but you wouldn’t know that from their appearance - featureless twigs that might have been found under any tree after a heavy storm. It was difficult for me to tell which of the ends went in the ground and which stuck up out of the dirt. Despite the rain pelting my head on that dismal Saturday, I must have planted them the right way 'round since, over the years, three Japanese persimmon (kaki) trees grew from those twigs and have turned into mid-sized fruit trees.
I planted persimmons because you cant get them here in Texas - not nice ones anyway. Oh, sure, there's always a box or two of mushy, bruised eureka persimmons (or sometimes the fuyu variety) in the grocery store around Thanksgiving, but these aren't edible. You can also find them in the Asian markets, but they're not much better. They look like they've been used in place of a whiffle ball for batting practice, not to mention the outrageous price. Always, I see them in the store, pick one up, handle it, feel the bruised, darkened skin and realize that this is not something on which to spend $8. So, I decided to grow my own. It's been a long process - five years to grow a tree big enough to let bear fruit - but it has been worth it... fresh persimmons, persimmon salsa, persimmon glaze on ham, stewed persimmon toping for ice cream... yum.
This year, I had my biggest crop ever. All three of the trees were producing and I was looking forward to getting to try the fruit from the tamopan variety tree. It had always been smaller than the other two and I had not let it bear fruit in previous years. All was well until, one afternoon, the fruit was gone. All gone. Yes, birds always claim a few, that's a fact of life, but birds leave a mess: half-pecked fruit clinging to the tree, fruit flesh on the ground, the fruit stems and leaves still attached to the tree, not to mention the bird droppings. No, these persimmons were gone with no trace. Squirrels, I thought as I examined the branches on my trees. No, squirrels would leave a mess also, and this fruit seemed to have been picked neatly from the trees.
It's a cliché' mistake, I know, to always blame a thief when something goes missing. Usually, you've just misplaced the item and it hasn't actually been stolen. But, looking at these trees, and they way the fruit had been picked, I couldn't see another explanation than someone having taken the fruit.
With nothing for me to do, I wandered back in to the house. Wondering as I wandered, what does a tamopan kaki tastes like? But, mostly, who ate my persimmons?
R.T. Lemur 1:15 PM
7 Comments:
Sounds like a tort to me! I blame the gangs. Probably an initiation right of some sort. Definately, wire the trees with some sort of electrical zapping device and when they file a tort against you for damages, you can say it was a bug/bird/squirrel zapper. BTW, I have seen the trees and they are gorgeous and I don't believe you for a second that you planted them as twigs.
And my brain keeps thinking the question is, "Who ate my permissions?" Go figure.
And I don't know what a tampon tastes like, that's disgusting, Lemur!
I wouldn't put it past my mother.
She loves persimmons like nobody's business. Even if she is on the other side of the world, I wouldn't be surprised if there was some secret flight involved to eat them all.
Personally, I don't like that furry taste they leave on your tongue. blecch.
:)
She loves persimmons like nobody's business. Even if she is on the other side of the world, I wouldn't be surprised if there was some secret flight involved to eat them all.
Personally, I don't like that furry taste they leave on your tongue. blecch.
:)
C.W. sorry to hear about your problems, but there is help out there. Try this link: www.interdys.org
:-) just kidding...
Gossy, surely your mom is not the type to fly over, eat my persimmons, and then not knock on the door to at least say "hi, pleased to meet you, I'm Gossy's mom"? Still, she hasn't complained of a "furry tongue" recently has she?
:-) just kidding...
Gossy, surely your mom is not the type to fly over, eat my persimmons, and then not knock on the door to at least say "hi, pleased to meet you, I'm Gossy's mom"? Still, she hasn't complained of a "furry tongue" recently has she?
No, you're right, she would definitely have popped in and said 'hi' and most probably had brought you a lasagne and some tiramisu in return.
Although, there seems to be a number of suspicious orange stains down the front her cardigan!!
:)
Although, there seems to be a number of suspicious orange stains down the front her cardigan!!
:)
Dear Lemur,
I have refrained from commenting on your post this far in order to compose my feelings regarding what happened.
When I first saw this post, I thought it would be a cute story about hungry racoons or some such. The opening paragraphs reminded me of the persimmon tree I left behind upon my divorce and the tasty fruit thereof. (The tree. Not the fruit of the divorce.)
When I read on and discovered that it was not racoons, not birds, and not ants, but obviously humans who stole your persimmons, I became so upset on your behalf that I had to stand up and step away from my computer.
Afterwards, I marvelled at your calmness in the face of such heinous wanton lawlessness.
Then, today, I had the singular pleasure of lunch with your wife. She informed me that, in fact, you had been very upset, indeed.
Let me know if you want anyone to help you set up a sting operation involving store-bought persimmons, night-vision goggles, and baseball bats enhanced with rusty nails. Because the person who stole your persimmons deserves to have the bloody, living shit beaten out of him, as soon as reasonably feasible.
I have refrained from commenting on your post this far in order to compose my feelings regarding what happened.
When I first saw this post, I thought it would be a cute story about hungry racoons or some such. The opening paragraphs reminded me of the persimmon tree I left behind upon my divorce and the tasty fruit thereof. (The tree. Not the fruit of the divorce.)
When I read on and discovered that it was not racoons, not birds, and not ants, but obviously humans who stole your persimmons, I became so upset on your behalf that I had to stand up and step away from my computer.
Afterwards, I marvelled at your calmness in the face of such heinous wanton lawlessness.
Then, today, I had the singular pleasure of lunch with your wife. She informed me that, in fact, you had been very upset, indeed.
Let me know if you want anyone to help you set up a sting operation involving store-bought persimmons, night-vision goggles, and baseball bats enhanced with rusty nails. Because the person who stole your persimmons deserves to have the bloody, living shit beaten out of him, as soon as reasonably feasible.