|Wonderful Pomegranate-Bird Back 40|
There she goes again. The Wonderful Pomegranate putting on her usual springtime "look at me, I'm pretty" show. I should have put this tree in the front yard where everyone can enjoy the bonanza of bright red and yellow flowers.
But the one drawback to that idea is I wouldn't get any pomegranate fruit in the fall. Some thieving kid would probably steal it all -- just as I did back in the Modesto day. And who could blame a kid for emulating me? I certainly can't.
|Emerging Pomegranate Fruit-Bird Back 40|
My passion for fresh fruit was forged by two factors -- neither of which I could control. Number one, I was the youngest of four kids growing up in a single-parent household. There wasn't much money when dad up and left. There wouldn't be much to go around for several years.
What bacon mom did bring home didn't last for long. This was the day and age before "free school lunches," although I do remember on some days we did get a half-pint of milk. That was always a treat.
|Pretty Pomegranate Flowers|
What I didn't get at home was augmented by what I could scavenge from the fruit trees that dotted front and back yards in our Ribier Avenue neighborhood. Fortunately, they were both large and plentiful. Plums in the front yard, cherries in the backyard. If that peach wasn't in season, the Merritt orange tree most certainly was. This was the second factor I had no control over. The fruit trees were there and I couldn't control myself.
But it would be on a nearby street -- Norwegian Ave. very near McHenry -- where I would discover a fruit like no other. It wasn't the biggest of trees as I recall -- probably no more than six or seven feet. But it shined with bright pink, red and yellow blossoms in the spring and delivered an eye-popping harvest of glistening red, softball sized fruit in the fall.
|Pomegranates Here-Pomegranates There|
I can remember my mother's first horrific reaction when she discovered I was bringing a bounty of pomegranates into her house. "DON'T EAT THOSE IN HERE," she positively screamed. "They'll leave behind a stain that will never go away!"
But what do mothers know about pomegranates and messy kids anyway? Besides -- it was dusty, old furniture in a Modesto tract home -- not the Taj Mahal. So I did what any snot-nosed kid would do. I promptly ignored mom and cracked those babies open on her freshly polished living room coffee table.
|Ain't She Pretty?|
Mom was right. Those stains never did quite go away. Thank God Almighty the carpet was a dark, chocolate colored brown. Otherwise those spots would have been plainly visible as well. I don't think the shirt I was wearing on this particular day also survived the onslaught of pomegranate juice. But I can tell you this much: It was on this day that my love for pomegranates was born.
I never did meet the family that owned this particular Norwegian Ave. tree. While I should have tried to knock on their door and at least ask -- I found it much easier to snatch as much as I could and run like the wind for the safety of home. This is a task and practice I repeated for many a year, until I acquired my first job as a newspaper delivery boy for the Modesto Bee. At that point I started to earn enough money to do what normal kids do: eat junk food.
|Honey Bee Crack Cocaine|
But I will never forget this tree. I hope you remember it too. Because it kept at least one small boy happy and fed when dollars were tight and good times were few and far between. While I could have chosen one of many pomegranate varieties to grow in the Bird Back 40 -- I chose the Wonderful -- which is the standard variety and the same tree that grew in front of that Norwegian Ave. home. And I think now you might understand why.
It's more than just a pretty tree. It's more than just fresh pomegranate juice (which is wonderful by the way). It's a connection to the past that I can never visit again. It's the thought of a mother, who is long since gone. It's a mystical connection that I feel. Because these flowers and this fruit remind me of a special time in my life.
It's a stain actually. A stain on my soul.