Peaches Lost
The blossoms came early this year. Too early. Even the bees seemed to know it was too soon, they didn't hum through the peach tree’s branches with their usual fervor. When the little pink buds first began to burst, the excitement that I usually feel was replaced with concern. How many frosts would they face before crossing into the safety of summer? Would any of them survive?
March’s heat wave brought temperatures more fitting to early June, reaching up into the mid-80s. The peach tree didn’t know. She thought it was time.
The first cold snap came through on April 2, all at once. Jaron and I went out with spare bed sheets and tied them over the branches as best we could, attempting to offer at least some insulation. We got hail and snow that day, and dipped into the high 20s overnight. Then on April 16, another snowstorm came through and temperatures dropped into the 20s again. Of course, these cold snaps are typical for April, but the peach blooms weren’t supposed to be out until late April or early May. This year, they were already in full swing by mid-March. They came too soon.
Yesterday, I got brave enough to take a look. Externally, most of the peaches look like they’re in good shape. They’re relatively firm, and not shriveled at all. But when I split a few open to inspect internally, the tissue is a dark green rather than the light green we’d hope to see. In all likelihood, we’re looking at a total crop loss this year—for our backyard tree and for farmers throughout the Wasatch Front. I’ve read of similar cases throughout Utah, Colorado, and Idaho, and am already grieving a summer without peaches.
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Jaron and I recently saw the Broadway touring cast of Hadestown when they came through Salt Lake City. The entire cast was spectacular, the performance breathtaking. The social commentary on themes such as worker exploitation and demonization of the other (see: Why We Build the Wall) merit their own extensive analysis, but as I mourn the loss of peaches, what I find myself coming back to is the portrayal of Hades and Persephone. This spring, I can imagine Persephone leaving the underworld in a drunken fury, packing her bags and swearing she'd never return. And yet, the train did bring her back again. Twice this month. And we have felt the lurching of her early departure and subsequent return. The peaches most of all.
In the coldest time of year, why is it so hot down here? Hotter than a crucible, it ain't right and it ain't natural.
As in ancient times, we’re left to wonder: what are we doing to cause the gods to behave in this way? In modern language: what is the science behind it all? In both, we ask: how do we fix this?
The gods have forgotten the song of their love.
What can we do, but tend to our own songs of love? Love for the earth, love for each other, love for ourselves. To care well for the beings within our reach. To use our gifts fully, whatever they are, and trust that they’ll come together in the ecology of skills that we form in the collective.
La, La-la-la-la-la-la.
To sing the songs of our love, so we never forget them. To sing back the peaches lost. And in the harmony of our shared voices, bring the world back into tune.
