Heartwood

Mike Ramm

One summer there was so much fruit growing on Margy’s plum tree that it split from the strain.  One third of the tree had peeled away and lay on the ground, connected to the trunk only at the base.

Margy’s adult son had died years before in a car accident.  Had he lived he would’ve donated a kidney to his sister whose own kidneys were failing.

I was surprised that Margy simply didn’t give up on the tree. From top to bottom its heartwood was now exposed. Insects would soon be infesting the gaping wound.  The elements would soon begin rotting the tree from the inside out.  Needless to say, it was a lost harvest, and firing up the chainsaw was the only way to go.

Her daughter died a few years later. Shortly after her daughter’s death, Margy’s husband suffered a fatal stroke.

Margy, however, refused to accept that the plum tree would never produce another crop. So the two of us propped up the fallen third and bound the tree together with nylon cord.  As Margy directed, I used her power drill and the largest bit she had to drill holes through both sections.  Then with a piece of rebar hammered through the aligned holes, we pinned together the severed parts of the tree.  With wire and a section of old garden hose, we supported the tree even more.

Instead of lashing out at the world, Margy volunteered at the hospital.  Instead of laying blame, she helped cook Thanksgiving dinner for the homeless.  Instead of shutting people out of her life, she invited them in.  Instead of living alone, she welcomed a boarder: my girlfriend Karen, now my wife.

To give the tree a chance to heal, we picked off most of the unripe fruit.  Then Margy waited out the seasons. The leaves fell in the fall; new ones appeared in the spring.  The tree soon blossomed and has blossomed every year since then.  New growth sealed the wound, covering most of the rebar.  One year the tree produced an astonishing bounty of fruit, and Margy was happy to give the plums away.