Persimmon Tree, Very Pretty
There are places in the world where you can view several states or countries from a single spot. I’ve been to some of them, but I have only the haziest of memories to show for my visits. To me, tourist attractions like that are never very remarkable. I can’t understand the fuss about one side of a map line versus another. I’ve been on so many sides of so many map lines that one place has become pretty much the same as the next.
But I do know of one special place. Once upon a time, on a small farm where I once lived, I could watch persimmons grow from my front yard. I can’t remember my code for the money machine, but that view has earned a place in my memory. Those persimmons grew on a large, independent tree. Planted alone among countless Fescue blades pushing through a loamy soil near the crest of a hill, that tree was the only landmark in a field of green. It marked the edge of our property.
Cattle seemed to appreciate this gift as much as I. A symbiotic relationship ensued as cows and tree traded shade and snacks for camaraderie and closeness. If it was summer and the cattle were lowing, you could be sure they were lowing under their persimmon tree. Offering shade, all the persimmons a cow could eat, and a sturdy trunk for scratching persimmon squirts from cowhide, that tree was central to a bovine nirvana of sorts.
Persimmon trees are generally tall and leafy, and this one was no exception. By placing this tree in the middle of a field and surrounding it with good bovine brethren, God produced a scene bordering on the majestic. As far as I know, the tree still stands, but I think the cows were evicted when they put the place up for sale this last time. The cows can’t afford it, and neither can I.
Perhaps cows and hippos were not meant to own farms, but I hope that tree is allowed to stand for a while longer—even though it saddens me to think of it standing there with no cows for company.
As you may know, persimmons provide motivation for those who would pucker up, but their taste rarely fosters a mood of amour, so the effect is generally wasted. If I could, though, I would eat a persimmon right now. I’d close my eyes and hear once again the sound of my uncle’s cows. I’d see the tree swaying in the breeze of a humid summer day. And as I felt my lips begin to pucker, I’d whisper a soft, low whistle at the beauty of our world. I think I might take a ride this spring to see my tree once more before the hay comes in. I hope there are some cows nearby.
Sincerely,
Mister Hippo
