From the land: A few scattered fruit trees 

In the end most of the trees died. It was a solid plan, but the execution just didn’t pan out like I had expected. I’m more of an idea guy. It is in the follow through that I often falter and fall short. 

Starting an orchard was one of my grandest plans, albeit a terrible one in hindsight, when I returned to the soil in my native Laurens County. The back side of my property has a nice open field area, perfect for a few rows of trees to create a small-scale, homestead-type of operation one man could maintain. 

After several trips to the local extension office and garden shops and reading multiple books on gardening and homesteading, I performed the first planting of about 10 trees, a sampling of different types of peaches, pears and a type of apple that could allegedly produce in the Middle Georgia climate. My assistant at the time was my 1-year-old baby boy, playing in the holes, splashing in mud and tugging at the trees lined up and spaced, at intervals prescribed by University of Georgia guidance. Parenting a little child and digging holes don’t exactly go well together, so in the end the rows were more staggered lines. 

The spread would be called Crooked Row Orchard. 

Everything started wonderfully enough. With proper care the trees made it through the year. More trees were planted. Persimmons added to the mix. Each new row just as crooked as the last. By the third year problems began. Right when I should have begun seeing some literal and figurative fruits of my labor, blight set in. Some of the trees looked as if they had been burned, what I would learn is called fire blight. 

Then the wildlife moved in. Deer, birds and insects ate at the small fruit and nibbled away at the tender shoots of new growth. I’ve tasted only a handful of peaches and pears from my own land over the years. The apples and persimmons never stood a chance. 

I don’t know how many trees I had when I got tired of fighting and gave up. I was spending too much money on treatments and repellants, too much time building deterrents for too little reward. Now only five scraggly trees survive, a handful of peach and pear trees, and only one from the original planting a decade ago. They dot a small section of what is now an oversized backyard.

Every year I consider just digging them up, especially when I cut the grass around them, as I did recently when I fired up the mower to start the cutting season. But then I look at my son, half-grown yet standing tall enough to look me in the eyes, and I remember that little boy splashing in the mud as I planted trees at our new home. A child and his father bonding over an ill-fated endeavor but having the time of their lives. 

I suppose I’ll just let them stay for now.