Reflections - Waiting for Pawpaws
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| Pawpaw Trees |
He raised the twig in the air. “It’s a pawpaw.”
As if that explained the wacky purchase.
Reading my mind he said, “They’re native fruit trees. You like fruit. You’ll see.”
I did like fruit. The scrawny twig grew taller, branched out, but didn’t fruit.
Three years later, he bought two more twigs. “Pawpaws need to cross pollinate,” he said. At least the few dangling leaves indicated life. Spence planted his two twigs behind our garage. The three trees formed a triangle.
A month later at the township garage, Spence and I sat on metal folding chairs beside our neighbor Stephanie and breathed in the diesel fumes from the graders, tractors, and dump trucks at the supervisors’ monthly meeting. Spence told her about his new pawpaw trees.
Stephanie squeezed the minute sheets she’d rolled into a tube. “We had pawpaw trees growing up. They take ten years to bear fruit, but they’re so good.” A dreamy look came over her face.
I didn’t doubt his new twigs would grow. Maybe I should have.
Once, after Spence brushhogged, he trudged inside. His shoulders drooped and his face clouded under his beard. “I cut one of the pawpaws.” He held up a twig—a rootless twig.
I rubbed his back. Since I’d never seen or eaten a pawpaw, I didn’t care that this sapling failed to mature. Hundreds of saplings sprouted in the woods every year. Not all of them survived. But the poor guy was mourning his tree.
“We still have two. They can cross pollinate, Spence.”
He forgot the names of the varieties. I figured the name pawpaw was strange enough to remember.
These trees of the understory grew into pyramidal shapes with the first tree growing twice the size of the second. Their oblong leaves dangled like fringe—grass green in summer and dandelion yellow in fall. Because they were different varieties, the taller tree’s leaves always displayed a darker shade.
We waited for the fall fruit.
On a garden walk five years after he’d planted the first twig, I searched the trees for fruit. None.
“Takes ten years.” Spence rubbed my shoulders.
Though I’d never had the urge to taste a pawpaw, the trees at Wells Wood made me curious. I didn’t want to wait ten years. Considering the first twig he’d held, however, waiting until the tree matured made sense.
Each succeeding summer we checked. No fruit. Not a single one.
This year I concentrated on my Down a Country Road short story collection rather than the garden.
Spence walked into the house one July evening while I washed dishes and said, “We have pawpaws.”
I turned, dripping water onto the floor.
Rills, the cat who chose Spence for favorite person status, clawed Spence’s jeans to be picked up.
I must have looked my question, Of course we have pawpaw trees. What do you mean?
Spence scooped up his cat buddy and said, “The trees have fruit. I’ll show you tomorrow.”
The next afternoon, sunglasses in hand because I didn’t want to distort my vision, I followed Spence to the pawpaw trees.
He pointed.
I peered.
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| Pawpaws |
I touched one of the pawpaws. Rock hard. No bird bites. No insect bores. How long would the fruit take to ripen?
Spence attended the August 11 township meeting. He also asked Stephanie when the pawpaws would ripen. I stayed home to wash dishes and order expandable folders for my beta readers’ copies of Down a Country Road. His report back discouraged me. “She said, ‘end of September or early October.’”
Okay. Fall fruit should ripen the end of September or early October. And I checked online for how to tell. Touch proved a better test than color. My new quest—discover a pawpaw that felt like a ripe peach.
At least once a week throughout the rest of August and September, finger tests for the pawpaws—which grew fatter and longer—failed. Rock hard.
Our tests increased to every other day in October. On the twelfth, we made yet another trek to the pawpaw trees with their yellow leaves and fruits—some turning yellow-green with black splotches. All rock hard. No animals had taken any. No birds had pecked any. No insects had bored into any. None had fallen off the tree.
Pennsylvania already celebrated its pawpaw festival in York. Actually, all U.S. festivals finished. Only Quebec held a festival that day. And our area of Pennsylvania had been under a drought watch since April. Pawpaws are drought sensitive.
Would the pawpaws fail because of the drought? Would frosts stunt their development? Would our fruit ever ripen?
As if Spence could read my thoughts, he peered at the pawpaws and said, “The trees took ten years to bear fruit. They’ll take ten years to ripen.”
Not funny.
Three days later, we headed out for a health walk. Instead of turning toward the ramp which led to the road, I turned toward the porch steps which led to Spence’s tractor path, the back of the garage, and the pawpaw trees.
Behind me Spence snorted. “I checked yesterday. Rock hard.”
I walked the path anyway. Spence was probably right, but I might as well walk by the pawpaw trees as along the road. Buttercup yellow pawpaw leaves lifted slightly with the breeze. Tawny leaves lay under the trees.
Two pawpaws had fallen off the short tree and landed in the leaf pile. A bite opened one fruit’s side. Cracks marred the brown skin and flesh of both fruits. Yellow jackets and flies swooped in and feasted. Way past ripe.
I felt every fruit on the trees. Rock hard until the eleventh. The top depressed under my fingers. Though he stood beside me, I hollered, “Spence! The top mushed. It’s ripe.”
He put his arm around my shoulder and led me toward the road. “We’ll pick it on our way back.”
After our walk, I checked the sides and tops of the pawpaws. I picked two. They popped off like bananas snapping away from a cluster. While I slurped homemade chicken barley soup, I studied the fruit. Lime-green colored the larger one and the bottom of the smaller one—four-and-a-half-inches long and two-and-a-half-inches wide. Lemon-lime with small black splotches colored its top. Because the small pawpaw’s top smooshed under the finger test, I chose it to eat first.
Spence leaned with his hands clutching the edge of the table. “Well?” As a diabetic, he didn’t eat fruit.
I swirled the smooth, sweet fruit around on my tongue. “It’s creamy like custard.”
He frowned. He could see that.
“And it tastes like banana with a hint of mango.”
He took one step away.
I stopped him. “You should try it.”
His face debated the pros and cons of tasting fruit. No, he regulated his diabetes with medicine and a strict diet. Yes, he’d planted the trees and waited ten years.
Spence opened the silverware drawer and pulled out a teaspoon.
I shoved the plate toward him.
Spence scooped a quarter teaspoon of the creamy pulp and opened his mouth. Spoon inserted, he stood still as if contemplating his dainty bite. Then he dropped the spoon into the sink and walked across the open space room to the sofa.
Curious, I pursued him. “Well?”
He shrugged. “It tastes like fruit. It tastes like a pawpaw.
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| Pawpaw Partially Scooped |
