Of plums and beaches

Wednesday, June 13, 2007-06-13

As I promised, I’ll relate the story of Cadiz (pronounced Cadi-th) as well as a peculiar coincidence concerning plums. So what of Cadiz?
The city smelt of brine and rosemary: an addictive aroma fitting for a place supposed to be the oldest continuously inhabited city in Europe. As we wandered along its ancient pathways, we stumbled upon a cobblestone street covered with rosemary and lined with garland. A gigantic crowd of people lumbered towards us as if bewitched by the melodic and mournful songs emanating from a marching band. It was Corpus Crisiti in Cadiz, and a religious procession was underway celebrating the body of Christ. The rosemary procession was something incredible that made me wish America wasn’t so tradition less. It connected everyone in the town to this 3,000 year history, to ancient memories, Visigoths and Moors, to the Phoenicians and Romans, and farther back, more ancient… more remote. Antiquity blended with the present. All there is, all there was, happened now.

After a long observation of the procession, we entered one of two Cathedrals in the city and sprinted to the peak of highest tower. The entire city lay before us. Most of the businesses of the city were closed because of the feast day but, the beach never shut its’ doors.
We walked through a few more sights in town, none too noteworthy, and found our way to the shore. The entire day was spent half underwater with salt in my ears catching waves and half on a sandy beach towel emblazoned with “George Washington University” where I napped or read or daydreamed of possibility.
The day had no epiphanies, no drama, there was no beginnings or endings, and in all likelihood it will one day fade from my memory. The day was sunshine and quiet thoughts that pulsed like the waves that massaged this ancient seaport. It was meditative. It was beautiful.

* * * * *
A few of you – namely Z and Amy – know of the miraculous nature of the family plum tree. Years ago, my father and I planted a sapling plum. Over the years, it had grown dramatically, blossomed awesomely, but had stubbornly refused to yield any fruit. Completely forgotten, it was not until the day I left that anyone noticed the tree was awash with plums. Ironically, in a year noted for the plague killing of the bees, the plums decide to blossom.
My mom sent pictures of baskets filled to the brim. As usual, I have a theory. This was the only summer I have been absent from home since the tree has been transplanted. Sensing this, the genius of a tree furiously bore fruit, as if to lure me home. It wanted me back. To a degree, its attempt at yearning worked. The images and letters about this phenomenon of produce did make me nostalgic for home. In fact, I complained to my mother, I complained to my friends here, and I daydreamed about plums. Maybe it was the daily e-mails about plums sent to me, maybe it was because I hadn’t even tasted a plum in years… but those plums sounded like the greatest food in the world.
The next time I talked to my Senora, I told her of the beach, my weekend, and most importantly of plums (or ciruelas). She listened, she smiled, and excitedly ran to the kitchen revealing a basket full of plums. Apparently that very weekend, as she visited a friend in the countryside, a plum tree was miraculously producing more plums than it ever had before. Her friend was so awash with plums that she offered them to my Senora to take home.
So perhaps the plum tree in Texas, telepathically communicating with the plum trees of the world, pompously told of its ability to withhold fruit from its cultivator. Maybe, other plums felt bad for this person and felt it necessary to make equally magnificent plums. Maybe, this person was me and I got a taste of Texas in those plums.
Then again, another theory. Maybe because there were two cultivators for this tree – my father and I – this had some effect. Maybe, it’s mandated in some lawbook of nature that other plum trees must supplement the loss when the cultivator is absent or the the tree in question will die . Maybe, as the Alchemist says, “when you want something bad enough, the entire universe conspires to help you.”

Maybe, I got my plums after all.