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The Pecan Tree
by Gary Neibaur
We sometimes go to grandpa’s house to visit. Well… OK, my kid’s Grandpa. Anyway,
it’s a long drive from Pleasant Grove, Utah to Henderson, Nevada. It takes
all day long to get there. It shouldn’t really take so long, but with a van full
of kids we seldom go more than an hour between restroom breaks. When we get
there, we usually help Grandpa with a project around his house. One time
we helped him assemble a carport. You know… one of those aluminum Wal-Mart
things. Grandpa is always very thorough in his work. On this occasion he
wasn’t content with simply setting up the portable carport on the cement pad.
He anchored it into the cement so it became a permanent fixture. Instead of the
canvas top, he wanted an aluminum roof on it so it became completely permanent.
It was kind of fun putting the roof on that thing though.
On one of those trips, I got the task of picking the pecans from the pecan tree.
Now I’m absolutely certain that this tree is at least a hundred years old! I
know this because it must take a hundred years to grow a tree that big.
Besides, the bark on this tree is so dry and brittle. It reminds me of when I
was young sitting in church. The skin on the old men that slept through the
meeting was like the bark on this tree. The bark is patchy and the edges curl
outward so that they would scratch my skin or tear my clothes if I ever tried to
climb it. Like a fairy-tale giant, this tree is scaly and old and the claw-like
branches are gnarly and sharp. I don’t suspect that any young people ever
blossomed their romance under this tree! It’s also not likely that any children
ever climbed its twisted arthritic branches. No, this isn't a tree to be
looked on with a lot of fondness.
It was early winter in Henderson. The air was crisp, but not too cold. All the
leaves were gone from The Tree making it look even more foreboding.
I began picking the pecan nuts from the lower branches and dropping them into a
bucket. Grandpa brought me a 15 foot pole and said, “Use this. Jus’ knock
‘em down!” Then he left. Knocking them down seemed reasonable to me, so I
reached the long pole into the tree. I moved the pole around a bit, but nothing
happened. The nuts didn’t fall. I tried again, but the fingery branches caught
the pole and moved it aside, leaving the nuts attached to the branches. It
seemed to me like the old tree was moving its branches around me on purpose.
“Ridiculous!” I muttered under my breath.
Undaunted, I moved the long pole back and slammed it hard into one of the
branches. A few pecans fell. I tried a second time, but nothing happened. Like a
pro-wrestler with a chair in his hands, I gave a smack that would surely knock
out my opponent. Still, the pecans didn’t fall. Rather, a small branch caught
hold of the pole and deflected the intended blow back away from the larger
branch. The scaly finger-branches rolled back, away from the pole, allowing the
pole to land on another branch instead. The cluster of nuts I had aimed at
flipped back to its original position. The effect was that of a deadly
slingshot. At least a dozen nuts fired directly at me! I recovered
quickly from the shock. I looked up at the old tree with new respect.
This tree was a worthy foe indeed! Nonetheless, this old decrepit tree wasn’t
going to match my determination. I knew, and I’m certain that The Tree
knew, that it was going to be me, or him!
Now, I approached with more caution, my pole raised like a knight's lance ready
for the joust. I picked a branch and began banging it with heartbeat regularity.
The old tree opened fire on me. Each finger-like branch hurled a handful of
grenades with impeccable accuracy. I reeled under the onslaught and stumbled
backward. My only thought was to remain focused and not give in to… The Tree.
Miraculously I didn’t drop the pole but remained true to my cause and smacked
another branch as I staggered backwards. Like a madman, The Tree continued its
brutal attack. How could such aged fingers possibly be so agile? The emotion of
the battle raged in my mind. I wasn’t sure if the pounding in my head was the
sound of my heartbeat or the thudding of my foe’s onslaught. The Old Tree was
immovable. He stood there and threw stones at me the way an old man will to get
rid of an unwanted mongrel. “Not me” I thought. “I’ll not yield!” Minutes passed
like hours. It was me… or Him. He was in my head now! I could hear Him laughing.
It seemed like hours earlier when I was so certain of victory. Now, with each
passing moment my thoughts of victory were fading. I began to plead only for
mercy. My strokes were now defensive, my arms moving to shield myself. The pole
was no longer a knight's lance, but a terrible weight falling backwards and
pulling me completely off balance. While I began to yield to His tireless
onslaught, His laughter began to fade. It was almost imperceptible at first, but
then I realized He too was wearing down! I was now on my knees, barely able to
move my arms. My lance was leaning into Him, but I didn’t really have much
control. However, I had worn Him down too! We were both yielding! With renewed
strength that can only come from victory I stepped up and kicked His trunk. A
few of those nasty scales flew from Him. His only response was one single
misguided mortar. Ha! I had outlasted and truly bested this opponent! I did my
victory dance, running around His perimeter with my lance raking against His
old, arthritic hands. He merely sighed and handed over his last remaining
ammunition without further argument. He remained proud in spite of his loss. I
didn’t care! He had truly fought well and had nearly defeated me. But in the end
I had won and I was proud of my victory! I looked at him, drunken with pride
over my unmistakable superiority. I laughed and gave Him a final swat in the
trunk. My swaggering voice rang out as I whooped an Indian war cry.
The Old Tree just stood there, unbending and proud as ever. His simple reply?
“Now pick ‘em up.”