Never Count Your Plums Before They’re Ripe

It’s a tough gig for flora around here.

Take the twin plums. The Grand helped me plant the wee slips when he was but a wee slip himself. Three years later, the nearest and dearest of the pair actually set fruit. I counted a grand total of five plums and I was so proud.

There were barely enough for a doll-sized tart. Undaunted, I dusted off the rolling pin and scoured every cookbook I owned for the perfect crust.

I thought I had taken every precaution. Anticipated every foe.

Birds. Squirrels. Insects. Acts of God. Rodents.

I’d never been so vigilant or so patient.

Neither had the Grand. He could finally reach the pedals of his neon-orange, big-wheel trike. One minute he was taking laps like a pro, two-wheeled corners and all. The next he came off a turn and plowed straight across the former lawn/converted garden area, running over the plum tree in question.

Picture a sapling-shaped catapult, bent to the ground, then released.

The plums were lovely.

Even in flight.

P.S. The sapling survived…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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