The plum tree stood sentry on the northeastern edge of my grandparents’ one-acre spread, on a narrow stripe of land nestled between the property line and the dirt driveway into the garage. Years before a pile of sand had been dumped beneath the tree when pavers were installed between the kitchen and the shop. Over time, the pile of sand had been dipped into, tramped over, and prodded by wind and rain so that it was barely perceptible. We knew it was there, of course, and if anybody needed sand for a project, they would take coffee can or bucket on over to the plum tree and help themselves. If you were a kid as dedicated to making mud pies as I was, having a secret stash of sand on the property was a boon for many advanced recipes.
Much like a good cat, a good plum picks you. But you must pay attention. I spent many summer days during my childhood lazing in the shade with my grandfather with little to do but stay cool and listen for plums hitting the ground. My grandparents were dirt farmers who moved to the San Joaquin Valley from west Texas in 1934 with the singular goal of not starving to death. As it turns out, poor people from west Texas know how to stay cool in the absence of air conditioning, namely by staying as still as you can and developing a healthy relationship with the shade. Iced tea helps, too. My grandpa and I were expert still stayers. Professional shade chasers. World champion drinkers of sweet tea.
My grandparents had a large expanse of lawn fronting the haphazard row of buildings that made up their modest property. West of the garage was a hexagonal building we called the round house, then came my dad’s L-shaped shop, and then, set back from the other buildings, a modular structure nicknamed the bunk house because that’s where my aunt and uncle would bunk down during their epic visits every four years or so. The two-bedroom main house was the last building in the line, and beyond it lay the permanent garden. There was another seasonal garden that spanned the width of the property behind the outbuildings, but the area fronting the structures was 100% dedicated to shade.
Where the lawn met the road, a box hedge provided a barrier between the house and Lemon Avenue, because people drive down country roads at crazy speeds. My grandma used to threaten to lay a long 2’x4’ across the street because “that would teach them to slow down.” She would say this with genuine eagerness, like she really wanted to do it. I think I inherited my biblical retribution streak from my Grandma. Anyway, the lawn and hedge were bisected right up the middle by a second, paved driveway. While the dirt driveway led into the garage and was for the exclusive use of my grandfather’s blue 1967 Chevelle, the paved driveway dead ended into my dad’s shop and was the “company driveway.” As in, that’s where company parked. My dad, who ran his television repair service out of my grandparent’s home, also parked his work van there when he dropped by to pick up messages or to eat lunch.
The lawn was shaded by two massive shade trees. The trees were there when my grandparents acquired the property back in the 1940s, and the house and other structures had been built around these giants. It was under these magnificent trees that my grandfather and I would take our extended afternoon siestas after mornings filled with gardening, fort-building, and mud-pie making. I’d typically curl up on a lounger with a book, while my grandfather was content to settle into his own thoughts. The valley heat can be thick and oppressive, but the trees were big enough to catch all sorts of subtle breezes and deliver them down to our damp necks.
Even while we enjoyed our companionable silence, the world around us was alive with sound. The buzzing of honeybees, bumblebees and hummingbird wings drifted over from the flower beds that edged every building. Mockingbirds and scrub jays would square off in the branches above our heads, screeching at each other and hopping strategically from branch to branch. Sometimes we’d hear the intermittent sound of a sprinkler or farm equipment in the distance, or the neighbor’s dog Dolly barking at the gophers who ran riot in the peach orchards across the street. And, of course, the sound of ice cubes clinking when one of us would pick up or set down our glasses. It was from this medley of sounds a plum would call out to be eaten.
A soft, dull thump as a piece of fruit became so heavy with juice that the stem would give way, delivering a black plum onto the sandy ground below. Quickly, fluidly, I’d slip from the lounger and head toward the tree. The secret was to find the plum before the birds discovered it, before the insects. A properly ripe plum is so purple it appears almost black, with a pale dust over the skin like a lavender scarf. This dust is called the bloom, which is sort of lovely, right? The skin of the plum is tart, but the white flesh beneath is as sweet as sugar. And warmed by the summer sun, there are few things better.
These days I feel about grocery store plums the way most people feel about grocery store tomatoes. At the risk of sounding like a fruit snob, grocery store plums are nothing like real plums. Sometimes I think that if the day ever comes when I bite into a real plum again – sweet as cane sugar and warmed by the summer sun – I just might time travel back to that shady lawn with my grandpa next to me and a fruit-stained Judy Blume book in my hands. And maybe I’ll never come back.
