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Photograph courtesy of Cookie Curci
Ripe Expectations: Grandpa and Grandma stand near her beloved 'Wait-'n'-See Tree, which produced baskets of luscious nectarines the following summer.
Remember When
The Wait-'n'-See Tree
Grandma taught her family a lesson in faith and patience
By Cookie Curci
These days, our Santa Clara Valley is known the world over as the site of the Silicon Valley, where high-tech companies spring up and grow overnight to incredible heights, or at least did before the recent economic downturn.
However, our Santa Clara Valley was once renowned as the nation's leading growers of fruits and vegetables. Thousands of acres of fruit trees of all kinds and types flourished in our valley. My grandparents, like many young immigrants, planted and maintained a bountiful fruit ranch in the fertile valley. It was in the shade of one of these trees where my own family roots grew and where I learned valuable family lessons that would stay with me a lifetime.
I was 10 years old when Grandma and Grandpa came to live with us. Our suburban house wasn't very large, but it did have a spacious back lot where Grandma could grow her beloved vegetables and fruit trees.
I regarded Grandma's anticipation for spring gardening as some sort of seasonal madness. What else could explain the way she mixed fertilizer into the earth with such enthusiasm?
Grandma worked in her garden every day, so often and for so long a time that she almost became invisible at it. She loved her garden, bringing to it every little scrap of knowledge she had gathered in the fields and orchards.
One spring, our family's desire for a backyard swimming pool circumvented Grandma's gardening joys. The above-ground pool we wanted was 4 feet deep and 50 feet around--it would have taken up the whole backyard.
Graciously, Grandma agreed to give up her backyard vegetable garden so we could install the play pool. But when it came to cutting down one of her young seedling trees, which was right in the path of the pool's location, Grandma staunchly protested. She insisted the tree was going to bear sweet nectarines, if only we'd have a little faith and patience.
Grandpa, an expert tree grower, swore on his knowledge as an orchardist that the seedling was a wild, bitter peach tree. What more proof did Grandma need?
But Grandma's belief in her tree was unshaken. She gave a catalog of reasons why the tree should be spared.
Begrudgingly, the family gave in to Grandma's pleas and settled on a smaller swimming pool. When we complained that our pool wasn't as big as our neighbor's swimming pool, Grandma would say, in her best broken English, "Wait and see, children, wait and see. This little tree will give you more pleasure through the years than a thousand swimming pools."
"Wait-'n'-see, wait-'n'-see. You and your ol' wait-'n'-see tree," I sarcastically mocked Grandma's words.
By the end of summer, our enthusiasm for the swimming pool had waned. The pool had become a nuisance. One of us had to clean it every day with an underwater vacuum system. And no one liked testing the water's chemical balance, nor the daily pouring of chlorine into the water. Plus, the water attracted all kinds of flying bugs and insects.
The plastic pool was packed away.
Meanwhile, Grandma's "wait-'n'-see tree," as it had come to be known, had grown taller and stronger, but still it bore no fruit.
The following summer, backyard barbecues were all the fad. Dad and Grandpa began work on a patio deck. Once again, Grandma's tree was smack in the middle of our plans.
Once again, we approached Grandma, and once again, she raced to her tree's side. With the passion of a Puccini opera, she heroically defended it from Grandpa's ax, placing herself in front of the tree, like a mother protecting her child. Then, with great theatrics, she threw herself in front of the tree and declared, "Things that are special take time to create."
Grandma had again won a reprieve for her little tree.
That spring, Grandma's wait-'n'-see tree finally managed to produce a few pale leaves and tiny blossoms, but nothing that would indicate a robust nectarine crop.
As Grandma gardened, I'd hear her singing Italian arias to her wisp of a fruit tree. When I laughed at her for singing to a tree, she said, in her native language, "Faith is believing in something when common sense tells you not to. Have some faith, and this summer you'll be picking baskets of your favorite fruit."
With the coming of warm spring days, tiny green bumps of fruit began to emerge on the branches of Grandma's wait-'n'-see tree. But still, the tree drew no interest from me. Like the rest of my family, I was sure the tree would bear bitter fruit.
It was late July when the small buds matured into rosy-red nectarines. Grandma's tree began to burgeon forth with plump, ripe, juicy fruit. The tree's spindly branches arched and bowed under the weight of the roly-poly, mouth-watering nectarines.
That summer, along with the sweet nectarines, Grandma's family had to eat a lot of crow. But Grandma was too busy picking nectarines for canning season to say, "I told you so"--her high-beam smile said it all.
Every year thereafter, like a springtime Christmas tree, each branch glistened with red and gold ornaments of fruit. Its enduring green leaves and golden red harvest were a reminder of the depth of Grandma's faith, love and patience.
Grandma, like other gardeners, was inspired by the sense of creation and the feeling of accomplishment that gardening brings. It took me a long time to understand Grandma's eager passion for growing things. Not until I was on my own, many years later, did I find any satisfaction in planting seeds and watching them grow. I've inherited Grandma's desire to grow things, and today a tree, grown from the fruit of her original tree, grows outside my back door.
People are more familiar now with the idea that plants, like humans, respond to the warmth of a human voice, that they have feelings and can sense moods and music. I can't swear that Grandma's singing to her tree encouraged its production of such extraordinary fruit. But I suspect, from watching Grandma and her tree, that the belief in something can make it happen.
Horticulturalist Luther Burbank once wrote, "Love is the secret to improved gardening." That's quite a statement for a man of science, but, like Grandma, devoted gardeners everywhere believe it to be true.
Cookie Curci can be contacted at cookiecurci@mymailsation.com
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Willow Glen, California Since 1992
