Heirloom apple trees: Notes from the farm
The apple trees were delivered just after I’d left for the weekend. From afar, I fretted over them like a mother hen. Would they get too hot? Would their roots dry out? Would the promise of heavy branches bending earthward be fulfilled in three, five, ten years . . . or never?
As soon as I got back home I rushed to the tall cardboard box propped under the eaves and tore it open. The tiny brown sticks with straggly bare roots seemed pitiful, more dead than alive. I filled a bucket with water and plunged the bundle in.
Much livelier than the tiny trees were their brightly colored labels. I fingered the plastic tag wrapped around each twig and read out their names like an incantation: Esopus Spitzenburg, Hudson’s Golden Gem, Puget Spice, Bonkers, GoldRush, Chestnut Crab, Sansa, Porter’s Perfection. Some were heritage varieties from hundreds of years ago and some were more recent crosses, but all were chosen, by the nursery and by me, for their stellar tastes. These apples were nearly lost over the last century of commercial agriculture, and so my baby trees were worth fretting over. But there was nothing to do now except let them soak and then plant them later in the day.
