The Apple Tree

Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, I would still plant my apple tree.

• - Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

An Apple Tree's Council

Lately, I have been fascinated with trees. There are so many complex systems and processes that are exhilarating to me. How do trees communicate with each other, tell time, and survive the most brutal of winters? I just want to know.  I’m not exactly sure from where this interest spurs. I am surrounded by trees every day, so how could one tree stand out? How could one tree interest me more than my phone, friends, or sports? But, there is one tree, one magical, magnificent, tree, that speaks to me in a way none other has. An apple tree. One lone tree. Looking at her for only a moment, you may not think her to be special. What really gives it away is how the sidewalk curves around the trunk, giving respect for the roots of the tree that span out underneath the paved road in what I imagine to be an inexplicably intricate web. The bark is an ancient brown, a brown like that of hot chocolate with one too many scoops of chocolate powder, or the dense crumbly soil that I pour into my garden each summer. The leaves are a brilliant green, dancing and twirling in the gentle breeze. Looking closely at the leaves, you can see the veins traveling through the durable green, intertwining and twirling gracefully around each other. The apples are small and round, not like the huge ones with seeds the size of my pinky nail that you buy at the store. They are green apples, the color of desert sage with the tint of a fiery red wildflower from the high Alps. The skin is thick and leathery, almost a struggle to bite into. Nevertheless, my sister and I pick the apples one by one and skip barefoot back to our house one door down. As we stumble up the steps, we catch a glimpse of my mom rolling the crust and pulling the apple peelers out, a smile falling to her lips as we run through the door. I love the tree. This tree has soaked up tears and listened to laughter, fought brutal frosts, and embraced glistening summers for 100 years of its life.  And I have done the same for 14 years of mine. Even this small connection gave me comfort… that is before I could forge a deeper one. 

I have many memories of the tree. It was always a place that fully allowed me to express my childish spirit. I would rejoice in the moments like when I was just tall enough to peak over the crumbling stonewall, the glint of a brilliant orange poppy with petals like droplets of a sunset looming over me in a vulnerable, poetic way. Their stillness was noticeable, and striking, even at a young age. Maybe it was the time when I would come home from an active day of summer and notice a little green ball hovering in the air. It was hard as metal and sour as a lemon if you bit into it, for it was hard to tell when it was truly ripe. This didn't stop me from devouring it, not for its taste, but for how it buzzed with the anticipation of fall and the proposition of what would soon be a magnificent fruit. I grin at such memories, like my very own sweet apple in my mind that is fresh for the picking whenever I choose. 

However, the tree has found me in moments of grief and hardship as well.  The world had just experienced the devastating loss of Hilaree Nelson, an incredible mountaineer, adventurer, and friend. The loss hit me particularly hard, but not as hard as her two sons, Quinn and Grayden. One day, I was feeling the grief heavily, and was not in the mood to do much of anything. However, after wandering outside, I came upon the apple tree. The apples were perfect: green apples that exemplified their ripeness with a rosy tint. Though I wanted all the pies I could get, my mom and I decided to spare one for Quinn, Grayden, and Brian. Making the pie, we were stung with grief and remembrance, but we made the pie with love and nostalgia for all of our good memories. When I brought the pie to them, I knew that I had done the right thing. I knew it couldn’t remotely soften what they must have felt, but the pure marvel I felt from sharing the amazing gift of the tree was powerful, for I was able to share this gift with others when they really needed it. 

I haven’t always viewed the tree as a gift, one that can travel through my hands and into the stomachs of others. A gift that replenishes each year, making one last hooray before it folds itself back into its wrapped and bowed box, retiring for a snow-filled winter. As long as I can help give, the tree can acknowledge my thanks and reciprocate with its own unique form of gratitude. 

Whenever I glide across the curved sidewalk next to the tree, my arm dragging along the cold metal railing from which hang straw baskets of flowers, I am reminded that I saved the tree. Perhaps saved is the wrong word. The spirit of the tree is far too strong to be limited by the word death. Rather, I preserved her. Construction was threatening to kill her, as she is settled right against an old, empty lot many people thought appealing to build a home on. This infuriated me. Did these people not know how much time I spent tangled in the limbs of this tree? Did they not know the meaning not only to me but to so many others? And I knew they didn’t. For these people, the tree was just a tree. There were other apple trees. In fact, a mile down the road was a grocery store where you could buy bigger, juicer, and seemingly better pieces of the same fruit. But the apples weren’t the thing I loved. It was the memories, the stories.  How could they not see? So I took action. I spent hours preparing the most professional script that I would later perform in front of the town council.  I relentlessly petitioned for the tree's safety, and I contacted arborists, tree specialists, and everyone I could think of who could save the tree. My tree. Our Tree. And finally, when I came home from yet another day of school, there it was. A little curve in the sidewalk, harboring the trunk in all its glory, keeping her safe from the chaos that revolved around her. I hope the tree knew what she meant to me, the gratitude I felt for her, and maybe she felt for me. Grateful, in whatever way a tree can feel such a thing. I wonder if anyone else ever felt this way for the tree, or if the tree ever felt this way for anyone else. Was the tree ever lonely? Ever longing?

A man walks aimlessly through the empty land. His hat just covers the tip of his eyelids, and a crinkled sound comes from his boots coming in contact with the grass. In his hand is an apple core; the soft yellow flesh nibbled down to the glossy black seeds. He takes one last savored bite and carelessly tosses the core to the grass. Whistling a seldom-sung tune to himself, he continues to walk leaving the naked core behind. And miraculously, the core sprouts. She grows, despite all odds, into a bush-like plant, then into a youthful tree, a teenage tree, and finally, an adult tree, where her roots span out for yards all around. The tree watches a town grow and evolve, slowly consuming her once spacious home. New buildings are built. Old ones are torn down. Occasionally, someone reaches up to her aged branches and plucks a leathery green apple, continuing on their way without a word of thanks. Then, a structure is built next to her. And, on her other side, across from her, behind her, wooden structures seem to suffocate the once bare land. Eventually, a thick grey substance is poured across the soil under which her roots lie, becoming solid and impenetrable, even for her. It is constricting and unnatural. She is isolated. And, it is a miracle in and of itself that she survives each year, continuing to bear her delectable fruit. But, even more so, it is a wonder that no one bothered to cut her down along the years and bury her underneath a wooden home. People come and go, and seasons flutter by. She wants to speak, to sing, but she isn’t a member of a pecan grove; she doesn’t have any other trees that look like her or bear her fruit. She is alone. Then, a little girl is born into the family next door. She comes to the tree and swings from her branches, picks her apples, and hugs her limbs. The familiarity of the girl is comforting, relieving even. She wonders if this is what it is like to be a pecan tree, always talking and bustling with the others, having a companion to survive the freezing winter nights with and to enjoy the sun-filled summer days with too. Maybe she and the girl could be each other's pecan tree. Two pecan trees with their own unique council. A council of apple trees and little girls. 

An apple tree is a gift. I have forged a connection with one in particular, but I only just learned how to say thanks. Our gratitude for each other is what deepens our connection; we both see the gift in one another. A gift we both say thank you for. 

Sketches

The apple tree depicted through art.

Photo Gallery

Acknowledgments

I would like to say thank you to all the people who supported me during this amazing journey. To my family, for tirelessly working to help me create the best work I could. To my friends, for editing for and encouraging me like no one else. Especially to my teachers, who were the foundation for the entire project. And, last but not least, to the apple tree, for every bit of joy you have blessed me with.