Bonzer Words!: Where’s The Tree?
Lytrice Adams tells of an ending and a new beginning.
I am back in the village in the mountains in Grenada, escaping the rigors of another brutal Canadian winter. And I found a surprise awaiting me as I got there.
The cashew tree was no longer standing in its appointed place in the backyard of my house. Instead of its dark shade, brilliant sunshine now poured down on a number of small growing plants flourishing beneath a cloudless sky. The distant mountains seemed greener and denser, and even closer than I remembered, now that there was no cashew tree to block the view.
I looked around for an explanation. One was not long in coming. The denuded trunk of the tree lay stretched out along the edge of the garden, the prongs of its lopped off branches pointing accusingly at a makeshift fireplace. Someone had chopped my tree down and used its branches for firewood. Tree murderers were at work in my short absence. I was very upset.
Ron, whom I thought was a converted tree protector, soon arrived at the scene of the crime. His manner was exasperatingly patronizing, pushing me towards the edge of my patience.
“You’re looking for the cashew tree,” he observed, a wide grin plastered across his black shiny face, revealing a gleaming row of perfectly formed teeth.
I swallowed hard.
“Why did you cut it down?” I demanded.
Ron adopted a slightly defensive stance in the face of my anger.
“The tree was causing a big problem,” he explained. “Everybody around agreed that we had to get rid of it.”
“What kind of problem?” I asked, barely able to hide my skepticism.
Ron launched his explanation, an earnestness creeping into his voice as he got deeper into his story.
“When you left last October, the tree had started bearing fruit. Well, within a few weeks, the branches were laden, and more flowers were appearing everywhere. There was going to be non-stop cashews. They matured very quickly, and before Christmas there were lots of ripe fruit rotting on the ground, with more falling with every little breeze. We tried to clean them up, but we couldn’t keep up with the volume. The kids were skidding and sliding on the slippery pulp, but the worse part of it was the swarms of fruit flies that invaded the entire area. They got into your nose and your eyes and your ears. They fell into your plate as you tried to eat. Flocks of birds came pecking at the fruit causing them to spoil even faster. With no end of the crop in sight, we had to cut down the tree and clean up the mess before you came back. We had to spray insecticide all over the place too.”
But I was determined to champion the slaughtered tree.
“Couldn’t you at least have saved a few branches? Did the whole tree have to be sacrificed?”
A flicker of impatience darted across Ron’s clear brown eyes. “That would have only started the cycle all over again. The trouble is the tree was in the wrong place.”
Depositing his slim torso on a large boulder beside the house, his machete glinting in the bright sunlight as he carefully laid it across his lap, Ron looked directly at me, an unmistakable challenge in his voice.
“People don’t plant cashew trees near their houses,” he stated flatly. “This tree just grew here by accident. Maybe, one night an owl dropped a seed, and it took root. After the hurricane, it thrived because it had so much light and space—no other trees to compete with. That’s why it caused all this mess!”
“I see,” I grudgingly conceded.
“Later on, I will show you something,” Ron added before he left, a mysterious smile lurking at the corner of his mouth.
That evening, Ron led me to a far corner of the property where the nutmeg and cocoa trees grew quite densely. In a little clearing, protected by a circle of bamboo slats, was a small green sapling – a cashew tree - gently waving its leaves in the breeze.
“We did not kill the tree, after all,” Ron crowed triumphantly. “We just moved it to its proper place!”
Note: I should explain that the cashew tree is sometimes referred to as French cashew. It bears a pear shaped fruit that is pink when ripe and is easily bruised.
© Lytrice Adams
Lytrice writes for Bonzer magazine. Please visit
www.bonzer.org.au
