The Orchard Rules

Artifact

To the children. If you are reading this, I am either in the garden or finally asleep. These rules are not suggestions; they are the only way to keep the house from smelling like old regrets. First, the harvest. You will pick the golden pears before the first frost. Do not let them overripen on the branch. A bruised pear leaks a decade of childhood nostalgia, and it attracts the wrong kind of wasps. Use the padded baskets and move quickly. Second, the black-veined plums. Do not eat them. I do not care if they look sweet. The black veins are concentrated grief. If you consume one, you will spend three days mourning a stranger's dead dog or a failed marriage from 1840. It is a waste of time and a drain on the household's energy. Any plum with a vein thicker than a thread goes straight into the stone incinerator. Third, the composting of the unwanted. When we decide a relative is no longer welcome in the family history, we use the South Bin. Bring the specific fruit associated with that person (usually the sour cherries) and bury them under six inches of lime and wet ash. Do not stir the pile. If you hear voices coming from the compost, simply turn up the radio. The memories will decompose into nitrogen within a month. Fourth, the pruning. Use the silver shears. Cut only the grey branches. If you cut a green branch, you might accidentally prune out the memory of how to bake the sourdough or where the spare key is hidden. I will not spend another summer searching for the cellar door because you were careless with the hedge. Keep your boots clean. The soil is heavy with things we have tried to forget, and I will not have it tracked onto the rugs.