Free Persimmons

For Democrats only

Around this time every year I get really pissed off. I glance out the window and I see this woman from across the street, who runs the local bridal shop, YANKING fruit off my geriatric persimmon tree. And get this… she’s got three bags! What the hell! Like she’s friggin’ going grocery shopping. And did she ask whether she could take this fruit? Absolutely not. And when I knock on the window and mouth “what the fuck!” she looks incensed and says something like “how rude of you to swear.” Yet there she is with multiple bags of fruit from MY TREE in MY YARD and at her feet are 3 or 4 large limbs that she took out in the process of grabbing the ripest persimmons.

And Ruby is not the only entitled person who thinks nothing of trespassing and helping themselves to this fruit. There’s Harold who lives in the largest and most expensive house on the block (a famous craftsman with cherried out woodwork and stained glass windows). That jerk even has his own persimmon tree, but he likes the fruit from my tree better. If I confront him, Harold brings up the excuse of the superiority of my fruit, as if flattery will quell my anger and as if his preference gives him the right to take that which is not his. WTH! And while Harold has been picking fruit, his two unleashed Labradoodles have both taken a shit in my front yard. Which he DOES NOT pick up. Wish I was making this stuff up. Then off he goes. Not a thank you, not a sorry. Just two hairy dumplings in front of my living room windows.

And let’s not forget the lady from Brown’s Valley, who apparently has my address on her list of trees to pillage throughout the year. She can be seen swinging by in her Mercedes SUV, then getting out to touch the fruit and test its ripeness. If it’s too hard, she gets back in her car and drives off. But I know she’ll be back next week with that fancy tote she bought at a local boutique. She’s very particular about which persimmons she yanks off my tree. She tells me they have to be just right for her famous persimmon cookies. Apparently my profanity laden rant goes in one ear and out the other since she returns each year. Erica walks briskly back to her car, gracefully avoiding Harold’s dogs’ shit.

And YES, there is a common thread I have found with all of these fruit “customers.” Every one of them is a Republican. They advertise this fact on their bumpers and with rude ass signs in their front yards. All other folks who are interested in the persimmons lightly knock on my door or put a note through the mail slot with their phone number. My guess: these folks are Democrats (i.e. people who don’t assume it’s OK to trespass and who don’t feel entitled to take whatever suits their fancy).

And let me say this: I do not consider these persimmons to be my fruit. It is fruit I choose to leave on the tree for all the wildlife that live in our beautiful, forest-like neighborhood… racoons, possums, squirrels, every manner of songbird, hawks, black birds, hummingbirds, etc. They friggin’ love this tree and I love watching them go at it for the six weeks it has ripe fruit. My famous tree pumps out enough fruit for all the neighborhood critters, but not enough for Ruby who lives across the street and can easily shop at Safeway. There is no doubt in my mind that if given the chance, she would take every last piece of fruit off that tree and sell it from her front yard… IF I didn’t rip her head off every friggin’ year.

Ah… deep breath. Let it go…

Nature is truly amazing. Even though my persimmon tree is old and delicate, year after year it manages to pump out incredible amounts of delicious fruit. I don’t know how it does it. In the winter that tree looks certifiably DEAD. But every spring gorgeous fat leaves and delicate flowers miraculously pop open. For months the tree shades half of the south side of my house and its lush branches provide privacy. In the fall, the leaves turn bright orange and create the most beautiful light on our front porch. And I would say this: I do NOTHING for that tree. I don’t water it, I don’t give it fertilizer or spray it for bugs. I do trim off a few leafless branches in the early spring. All told, I spend about 15 minutes a year caring for the tree.

Tomorrow is election day. A feeling of dread like nothing I have ever experienced is throwing shade on everything I do. I can’t shake it. I can’t bring myself to spin a positive angle on what all of this turmoil means. I can’t even make satire of the situation any longer. NOTHING IS FUNNY. It is just horrible. No matter who wins, things are going to get bad. REAL. BAD.

In trying to power through my feelings of helplessness toward preventing our country’s fall into the impending abyss of autocracy, I have managed to find a few pockets of control. Exercising this control is what is keeping me sane. Here’s where I am at:

• I will no longer be working for Republicans

• I will no longer be frequenting the establishments of any known Republicans (that means no more In-N-Out burgers – waaah!)

• I will no longer be connected to any social media platforms that pander to the far right, to conspiracy theorists, to the gun lobby, to human trafficking, pedophilia, etc.

And my persimmons are only for Democrats.