The Grove

The Planting of The Grove

Re-telling of a tale by A. Goldberry:

The Grove is an expression of love as best I know how: for the land, for friends, for life’s oozing surplus of beauty and genius. It started out as an apple core – then a massive collection of seeds – from which I have reaped so much more than I could have ever sowed. Within the Grove I have recorded over two hundred species of tree, shrub, vine, fern, flower, tuber, bird, beetle, worm. I grow fruit to enjoy fresh and dry, vegetables and greens for sustenance, grapes for fermented vitality. A half a dozen kinds of nuts create a feast for us, and for the squirrels, in a good year. A multivariate apple tree on strong natural rootstock. Willows, pine, and cyprus for shade and intrigue. I hope my children and their issue will have their bodies and spirit nourished by this grand garden as I have.

I’ll tell you the story of how this grove came to be. There is a reason for every prolific oak, leggy spruce, and every audacious catalpa. They have their own reasons, but I mean my reason for growing them here at the riverside, at this place so dear to me.  The fig, fir, redbud, sycamore, wisteria, apple, dogwood, river birch – they are the pillars holding up the sky of my world. 

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One of my very most prized possessions is my old cherry wood letter box. It contains early letters from Elizabeth and other cherished correspondence. However, it’s greatest value to me has always been as an ark of sorts. For many years I’ve collected seeds, tucking them into envelopes with a little note on where it came from, who it came from, how I felt. I had hundreds of species; the box overflowed with gems. My last city home – many years ago – was bursting with saplings in old soup cans. I gave away as many plants as I could to friends and strangers. It’s amazing how to most a seed is trash, but once it’s been given a bit of moisture, heat, time, and a scoop of dirt then people feel it’s potentiality.  Of course, there were many who accepted seeds as well; they learned younger than me how to wait, how sometimes later is better, and that life is long. I’ve always felt that a seed is the most valuable substance in the world. No amount of gold can grow into a home for bluebirds or delight a child so much as a fresh mango. Disposing of such a miracle of nature always felt wrong, as did buying them for so cheaply, but that is the generosity of plants, and so I hoarded them. To me, the box may as well have been packed with rubies and emeralds, though I strangely got more joy from giving them away than coveting them.

I never charged for any seed, spore, or sprig, but instead I asked for a favor. The favor was: take care and when the tree or shrub grows in months or years hence, come bring me a fruit or flower from it to enjoy together. Many never did return, but many did. We shared stories, and friendships grew as did the bounty of the plants. I felt wealthy beyond measure, life was a long Summer. Then, one balmy Autumn night the bombs began to drop; dark leaves from the tree of depravity, of man’s creative evil. I escaped with my rucksack on my back and the letter box under my arm. My home, my neighborhood, and my plants were reduced to rubble.

I don’t like to think of those stygian days. After some sanity in the world was restored, I emerged from the hard Winter soil. But I was not ready to grow roots again. I floated over land and water, untethered to any purpose. Those wanderings are a story for another time. Eventually, I found myself on a canoe on the Great Snake River and stumbled onto Mushroom Mountain – you know all about that already... Now, The Grove is a rather special geological feature of the Mountain. Almost directly below the main entrance to the Cellars there is a narrow rocky footpath that wraps to the South-East side of the mountain. It is about 100 meters of gentle elevation down and around. As you come around the bend you quickly find yourself on flat ground. When I first saw this tiny alpine valley, I cried for joy. I felt like the path and valley we’re carefully chiseled by a benevolent clairvoyant giant just for me. Flatness is a luxury when you live in the mountains. Just at the obtuse “L” where the gradient eases there is a clear, cold, melt-fed, bean-shaped pond of about a quarter acre. I would later stock it with friendly Chagoi koi. The surrounding area, about that of a football pitch, had little growing except ground cherry, sloe, a few dwarf mountain pines, and mosses and lichens.

The potential was there. I closed my eyes and saw it: an orchard, garden swales and berms, a glass house, a North-South vineyard overlooking it all, a lifetime of building an agroforest to nourish myself and many special others. That day I planted the first seed, a cold hardy Gala apple. As I planted that seed, I planted myself. The rest did come with much time and effort.

The planting of The Grove has been one of the most profound and enduring endeavors of my life. There, my re-connection to the Earth took root. It became Springtime in my soul. I made up a dozen words for clouds. I began giving away seeds and receiving fruit again, though my guests were less frequent. I found meaning in the perpetuation of life and consciousness, in the act of caring, in radiating love, in staring at small things, in the beating sun with weary limbs, in the serious work of introspection. It was the garden that convinced Elizabeth to stay.