In the Orchard

By Julianna Waters

Written en plein air at The Gorge White House, Hood River, Oregon

Women of bark, leaf and root reside in the orchard. Heavy with pears, they suck on dirt. Their ages vary. Some are just girls. Others old, their bark split. Most are juicy, fertile.

Breezes shift and muddle, but the women say nothing. Until dark. Tonight, they settle in to talk about a gaggle of visiting artists.

The Old Bartlett, Anita, looks to the starlit sky, and huffs. “Painters. They all stare out and away,” she says, “They look so serious. They brought dogs.” Her leaves rustle.

A young Anjou, Louise, ponders, “What is it about hillsides? And light?” The others lean toward her, creaking. “Painters. So one dimensional.”

Tickled roots curl beneath the ground. The women are amused. Louise is a snob. Orchard women love snobs.

Adelaide, a sapling, whispers, “Their pants are baggy. And they chatter. Painters chatter.”

The eldest Bartlett, Helga, pushes into her roots like a roosting hen and searches for water. Tendrils claw deep into black earth. The taste loosens her tongue. “It’s all about the gift bags,” she says, “That’s what I think.”

“What’s a gift bag?” Adelaide asks.

Helga lifts into her bark. Leafed and swaddled in fruit, she says, “The painters are given bits of bucket. The bits of bucket hold pieces of tree, rock and metal. The painters like the bits and pieces.”

“It’s true,” agrees Anita, “Painters like bits and pieces. And dogs. And chatter.”

“Did you hear them chatter? About bits and pieces?” The youngster asks.

“I heard them chatter about light. And hills. Rivers. Some chattered about the bits and pieces. And dogs.”

“One of the dogs peed on my trunk,” Louise complains, “Ate my dropped fruit... Do you think the seeds will find good ground?”

The Orchard women respond in a chorus: “Oh, I hope so.” “Someplace with sun.” “And soft air.” “Wormy earth.” “And water, water from deep down.” “Yes, yes,” they agree.

The elders laugh, “Nothing like a good rooting.”
Adelaide says softly, “Dogs are ok.”
“But not painters,” Louise states.

“Hmmmm, perhaps” the others rustle, “painters.”

“What about writers?” Rustle. Creak. Huff.

“Slovenly lot. Sit on their stumps like apples,” says Louise.

“Apples can be so common,” says a voice in the dark.

“Like peaches.” Root. Huff. Silence.

“Any news from the vineyard?” Helga asks.

“Just growth,” replies Anita.

“No mold?”

“Growth.”

“And the blueberries?” From the voice in the dark.

“Asleep,” says Helga, “They’re all played out.”

“I miss them when they sleep. Don’t you?”

The women agree. “They’re such characters,” Anita says, “All that jiggle and sway.”

“So unlike peaches.” says Louise, “or prunes... or painters.” Silence.

“Figs, now. There’s a lovely tree,” says the voice from the dark.Yes. Figs. Respectable. Broad leafed.

“But painters...” insists Louise.

Rustle, huff.

“All that standing around. In their baggy clothes.” Silence. Root. Breeze.

“And the writers?” Helga asks.

“One took pictures of my fruit,” says Anita, “Looked up my trunk.”

“Ooh, titillating,” says Louise, “Sensual.”

“Writers seem lonely.” Helga says, “like lavender.”

“So unlike us,” huffs Anita.

“Yes,” they agree, “unlike us... or figs.... or painters.”