Les Olives: Part Three

“We are like the trees, healthy humans are always growing.”

It has been a bit harder to keep the content coming this week. Long days in the garden and luxurious evenings of food and conversation. I’ve only averaged six hours of sleep each night, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. The result is a bit of a backlog on posts. So things will continue to trickle out (for free), but just a bit slower for another week or so. Enjoy!

“We are like the trees, healthy humans are always growing.” 

So said my aunt as we chatted in her cozy office while the Mistral winds blew cold outside. It would be a sunny and chilly day. Perfect for a few hours of working in the garden. Mind you, the garden is about six acres of pines, fruit trees, a 1000 square foot vegetable garden, and of course the 130 olive trees.

After a French breakfast of strong coffee, toast and jam, we arrived at my aunt’s grape vine. Aix en Provence is known for its rosé and white wines. They are delicious, and very popular in the States. There have been several new local vineyards in the last decade, including a neighboring field which was being converted to vineyards while we pruned. But my aunt’s vine is table grapes with just a single string of low stubby stems reaching up to a bare wire.

One of the grape vines before we’d trimmed it.

“Up two buds, and snip!” said my aunt, pointing with her stick at the sad looking plant in front of me. I was almost afraid to touch it. Nervously, I kneeled down to the ground, the leg of my jeans dampening on the wet grass. I placed the secateurs where I thought she was indicating.

“No. Not there…..there!” She instructed, moving my hand with her cane so far down the plant that I was afraid there won’t be anything left. 

“Are you sure?” I asked reflexively. But I knew I’d made a mistake even before the words had left my mouth. Her eyes and pursed lips confirmed my fears. The student must remain silent during this lesson.

I cut the longest, healthiest shoot off of the plant and it fell to the ground. 

“Again,” she said. 

Still nervous, I cut the next shoot almost back to the plant’s main arms. 

“Again!” The end of her walking stick hovering just to the side of my face, pointing at a third shoot. I bent a little further down to reach it. 

And just before snipping, I noticed two small variations on the cane just below my clippers. They could have been bumps or bands of a slightly different texture. I noticed that they continued along the entire length of the young shoot. Suddenly, I realized this is what she meant by “bud.” And sure enough, I saw just below my tool a tiny nub of what must have been a future leaf or twig about to spring forth. 

I held my breath and cut the cane away. Then I make another cut. This time without instruction. And then I make another, and then another. My pace accelerated with the growing silence, and quickly I’d turned the plant into little more than a stub. I got up to my feet and took a look at my efforts in horror. Had I killed the thing in my exuberance?

“Parfait!” My aunt explained, and turned toward the next plant along the vine. I flushed with relief. My forehead and armpits are damp despite the chilly air.  I had pruned something! 

After six more grapes, we moved on to the apricot tree. Since I’ve been coming to her house, I have known this to be a special tree for my aunt. Prominent in her yard, and visible from the kitchen, it’s the last apricots left at her home. In addition to the fruits being a favorite snack of the sangliers that occasionally root around the property, its orange flesh also makes some of the best jam. Was I really going to prune her prized fruit tree? 

The winds picked up again , and the tree began to sway. I admired the expertly shaped form. Having lost all of its leaves in the autumn, the apricot stoically presented half a dozen beautifully symmetrical and wide-reaching branches. The breeze continued and many more of its thin auburn shoots waved at me.

“We must cut back all of the dead wood, prevent any crossing, and allow the tree to breathe,” my instructor explained. 

The first task came easily enough. Although you can’t tell the dead wood from the live with your eye, touching them revealed how easily the dried branches snapped with a little twist of the finger. The healthy wood remained elastic. My inspection found only a few dead segments, and I quickly cut them away. I proudly smiled at my quick work. 

“Take out that branch there.” There was an old, thickly barked appendage, almost as thick around as my arm, that looked like it’d been on the tree for decades. “The branches mustn’t cross, take it out.”

“Are you sure?” I asked again. And again, I received the same somber look. She handed me a collapsible hand saw from her jacket. 

“Use this. We don’t want any rubbing.”

The sharp saw made quick work of the large branch, which fell to the ground with a thud, leaving behind a perfect yellow and white circle on the trunk. There were dozens of rings. 

“Now step back….Now do you see?” She asked imploringly. 

I stood back, but instead of looking at the tree, I stared down at the amputated limb. 

With her cane, she pointed at a younger branch I hadn’t noticed just below where the larger limb had been. 

“There. See that bruise?” 

I looked where she’d gestured, and saw a black and brown smudge on the younger branch that looked surprisingly like a human bruise. 

“Very good. Now remember, the tree must breathe.”

I learned in high school the basics of photosynthesis, but don’t recall any mention of how pruning might encourage arboreal respiration. So, needless to say, I was at a loss. What did she mean by breathe? But, wanting to impress my aunt with some since of intuition, I got back to work, thinning out some of the younger wood, cutting away every other red-brown shoot like I had on the grape. 

“Is it breathing yet?” 

I kept at it, all the while wondering what hidden clue I was missing. 

“Now come over to me. Right over here.”

I turned around and walked over to my aunt who was now sitting in a chair I had brought out for her. Bundled in her work coat, beret and walking stick, she looked like the queen of the castle. 

“Stand here and look. What do you see?”

Just then, the Mistral picked up again, blowing hard. Some of the newly cut twigs skipped across the ground. My aunt put her hand on her hat to keep it in place. But the tree was no longer swaying in the breeze. The wind was freely flowing through its branches. It simply stood its ground.

I looked up and almost said something out loud. In front of me stood a tree clean and strong and proud. The tree just looked healthier, more open, more airy. 

The tree was breathing.