Bill Dalton: Blossomtime
"As the blossoms inevitably drift away, there’s always an inexplicable feeling of loss, a deep longing for beauty that lasts forever. It’s not to be," columnist Bill Dalton writes.
EDITOR'S NOTE: The views and opinions expressed are those of the writer and not of Ottawa News Network.
On our farm, it’s Blossomtime. Everywhere else, it’s merely spring.
With the orchards in bloom, a fragrant breeze abuzz with the sound of bees, fruit farms morph into a mesmerizing sea of pink and white.
Look quickly, for it’s fleeting.
A sudden gust of wind unleashes a blizzard of petals, rivaling any real snowstorm. A lake effect snow globe, without winter’s wind chill.
And then it’s over. Except it isn’t.Ordinary flowers bloom only to die. Tumescent tulips rise then fall. Perfumed roses open then wither.
But the blossoms, if blessed by a bee, bear fruit. Apples, cherries, peaches, pears and plums. A sweet, delectable gift for those fortunate enough to live among the trees.
We live among the trees.
Not as many as in years past. Like us, the orchard has grown old. Most of the trees were violently ripped from the earth by bulldozers, pushed into brush piles and burned to make way for suburban sprawl and lush lawns.
Gnarled, twisted trunks grace the handful of ancient ones left behind on our 20 acres, unbelievably still fruit-bearing.
We wonder how long an apple tree can survive Michigan’s harsh winters. Long enough, it seems, longer than any of us.
Deep in the northern woods, we’ve stumbled upon alien-looking apple trees growing in the middle of nowhere. Planted eons ago, by someone’s hand, or bird droppings, or a visitor from outer space.Johnny “Skywalker” Appleseed? Certainly, no one alive today on this planet.
The outer wood is grotesquely gray and dead. Yet inside the gnarly, lichen-covered bark runs a thin vein of bright yellow, impossibly alive. At the ends of barren branches, a few stubborn brown buds emerge.
And then a magical burst of blossoms. Still.
It’s a wonder in a world full of manmade wonders, but none as wonderful or nearly as exquisite.
Over days, the transformation slowly unfolds, from blossoms to leaves. The pinks and whites of spring are gradually overtaken by the greens of summer.
The trees look like trees again.
But as the blossoms inevitably drift away, there’s always an inexplicable feeling of loss, a deep longing for beauty that lasts forever.
It’s not to be.
One must wait patiently. The trees are in no hurry. After sharing their fruit this fall, they’ll rest in dormancy.
Until miraculously once more … Blossomtime.Even for years after we’re no longer here to witness it.
— Bill Dalton is a former reporter and editor for The Kansas City Star. He spends summers on the family farm near Fennville. His novel “The Bank Game” — a crime thriller — is available from Amazon along with “Dalton’s Bend.”
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