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The Deeply Symbolic Avocado Pit
Sep. 6th, 2006 02:57 pmWhen I was six, I did that thing with an avocado pit, where you stick toothpicks in it and place it in a shallow dish of water, to coax roots and, eventually, a sprout from it. Mrs. Ude showed me how. When it finally sprouted, I could barely contain my glee, and I promptly dragged a chair over and set up two more pits in the window sill.
When all three sprouts were about a foot tall, I planted them on the strip of grass on the side yard, and named them (it shames me to admit) Avi, Ca, and Do, thus shattering the myth that all children are naturally creative. That shit is learned. I didn't even get the spelling right.
After a few months, it became clear that Avi was the only really viable one, so my parents tore out the other two and threw them away without telling me. I cried. Poor Ca and Do.
Avocado trees grow slowly. It took twelve years for Avi to finally cough up a single, skinny avocado, which a neighbor picked under cover of night. By this time, my stepfather was taking credit for planting the tree, which wounded me more deeply than it should have. But, darn it, that tree was mine. I was the one who built a little stick fence around it. I was the one who bumbled out to the side yard, heaving a sloshing water can with both hands, to give Avi a drink. That was my tree.
Then, when I was eighteen, my parents declared bankruptcy. We lost the house, and I moved out on my own, into the first of a long, long string of apartments. Goodbye, Avi.
Over the years, I've learned to live like a gypsy. Cruft and I, we don't get along. I tend to be ruthless with it, except for the kitchen gadgetry. (I keep the kitchen stuff, because I know if I toss it, I'll just want to replace it later, so I bite the bullet and box it up.) Everything else, however, slowed me down when I needed to be nimble, and to move quickly. That happened a lot.
Plants, including avocado seedlings, had long been out of the equation. Putting them into the ground was a waste, and having them in pots was a liability, since moving them was a nightmare, and I couldn't put them into storage. Besides, something that took twelve years to come to fruition was just silly. I couldn't think that far down the road. What was the point?
Lately, that's changed. When I first started dating John, I found that he had a lemon tree in his back yard. I joke that it's the main reason I stayed with him, and there's a weird truth to that. Yes, I love lemons, and use them in cooking all the time, but there's more to it.
Dude had a tree. He owned a tree. In his back yard. Do you know how attractive that is to a peripatetic such as myself? It meant stability. It meant nurturing. It meant that he could actually afford to think about having things in the ground.
God, that's hot.
So today, I stuck toothpicks in an avocado pit. I will not name it. I'll continue to stick toothpicks in avocado pits until I get a viable one, and then I'll ask John where we can put it into the ground. I guess this means that, after four years together, I have hope for this John character.
When all three sprouts were about a foot tall, I planted them on the strip of grass on the side yard, and named them (it shames me to admit) Avi, Ca, and Do, thus shattering the myth that all children are naturally creative. That shit is learned. I didn't even get the spelling right.
After a few months, it became clear that Avi was the only really viable one, so my parents tore out the other two and threw them away without telling me. I cried. Poor Ca and Do.
Avocado trees grow slowly. It took twelve years for Avi to finally cough up a single, skinny avocado, which a neighbor picked under cover of night. By this time, my stepfather was taking credit for planting the tree, which wounded me more deeply than it should have. But, darn it, that tree was mine. I was the one who built a little stick fence around it. I was the one who bumbled out to the side yard, heaving a sloshing water can with both hands, to give Avi a drink. That was my tree.
Then, when I was eighteen, my parents declared bankruptcy. We lost the house, and I moved out on my own, into the first of a long, long string of apartments. Goodbye, Avi.
Over the years, I've learned to live like a gypsy. Cruft and I, we don't get along. I tend to be ruthless with it, except for the kitchen gadgetry. (I keep the kitchen stuff, because I know if I toss it, I'll just want to replace it later, so I bite the bullet and box it up.) Everything else, however, slowed me down when I needed to be nimble, and to move quickly. That happened a lot.
Plants, including avocado seedlings, had long been out of the equation. Putting them into the ground was a waste, and having them in pots was a liability, since moving them was a nightmare, and I couldn't put them into storage. Besides, something that took twelve years to come to fruition was just silly. I couldn't think that far down the road. What was the point?
Lately, that's changed. When I first started dating John, I found that he had a lemon tree in his back yard. I joke that it's the main reason I stayed with him, and there's a weird truth to that. Yes, I love lemons, and use them in cooking all the time, but there's more to it.
Dude had a tree. He owned a tree. In his back yard. Do you know how attractive that is to a peripatetic such as myself? It meant stability. It meant nurturing. It meant that he could actually afford to think about having things in the ground.
God, that's hot.
So today, I stuck toothpicks in an avocado pit. I will not name it. I'll continue to stick toothpicks in avocado pits until I get a viable one, and then I'll ask John where we can put it into the ground. I guess this means that, after four years together, I have hope for this John character.
