Pecan

On the plains of Texas and Oklahoma, where trees are sometimes rare and precious things, there is a tradition that recognizes the responsibility of one generation for the next.

Rural homesteaders, once the house was built, the well dug and the first few crops harvested, would plant their "grandchildren grove." Laboriously, the farmer would read a score or more of seed catalogues and finally select a particular type of pecan tree. It had to be hardy and strong, able to withstand the deep winters and torrid summers of those dry plains. He would make his selection and send off carefully hoarded money.

In due time, a tree, hardly larger than a switch, would arrive. The farmer would place the roots of the dry and unpromising stick in water and then dig a hole, deep and wide. Tenderly, he would plant the tree, packing the soil firmly about its roots. Then he would water it, carrying bucketful after bucketful from his well. If he did his job well, in the spring -wonders of all wonders- the stick would sprout leaves.

Over the years, he would plant others and carefully tend them. But it wouldn't be for his benefit, because pecan trees grow very slowly, inching their way upward. To some it seemed folly, for the farmer would be dead and long gone before the grove he planted could provide substantial shade or a harvest of the sweet-meated nuts. But there was a saying that explained: "Plant corn for yourself and pecans for your grandchildren."

Some farmers felt work that went unrewarded for generations was a waste. Instead of pecans, they planted plum trees that grew quickly and soon produced fat, juicy fruit. For a decade or two, the plum trees did well, but eventually their soft wood split, and from the roots sprouted plum bushes that eventually became a snarl of scraggly, unproductive branches.

What are we coming to? Have we blinkered our vision to take in only the quick and easy, and the devil take tomorrow?

Just what are we planting, anyway?*

Planting pecans is fun in the beginning. Designing a pecan nursery and buying tiny pecan clothing is dreamy. When your pecan gets its first leaves it is cause for celebration. In the blink of an eye pecan grows from twig to trunk. Suddenly pecans become tough nuts. Pecans don't appreciate all the bucketfuls of water you have lugged across rough terrain for them. Pecans don't believe that they should grow slowly to grow strongest. My pecan really wishes she had a mini iPad and a cellphone and gmail instead of a nourished and well-packed pile of dirt. My pecan has mastered rolling her eyes. Sometimes it seems like it's going to be a very long time until my pecan is giving sweet offerings by the branchful.

When parenting my pecan becomes too frustrating I remind myself that twenty-five years ago my parents probably wanted to crush their second-born pecan. I also remind myself that there is no substitute for patience and hard work and that I didn't set out for quick and juicy plums, I set out for a pecan tree that would stand like a pillar for future generations. Anything worth getting usually takes a lot of time and effort to get.

I love pecans. I just didn't think they would be this hard to grow.

*Marvin Stone, "What Are We Planting?", U.S. News and World Report, June 13, 1977, p. 84