Every year in mid-summer I look up into our beautiful ginkgo tree and ponder the day that those green fruits turn a bright orange and begin to fall. The fruits are prized as a delicacy and medicine in some cultures. There's just one problem. The fruits smell like vomit. I'm not kidding. They smell horrible. The plump little fruits fall onto the sidewalk with a SPLAT and the aroma can be detected from over a block away. No. Really. A block away.
"What on earth are those things?", many passers-by inquire. I have my patter down after all these years. "They're ginkgo fruits. Some people eat them and, yes, they really smell like that.", I respond. The next question is usually, "They smell awful! Why don't you take down the tree?"
This question always strikes me as impertinent. Do they think the thought hasn't occurred to me? Each year I prod its branches with long poles to dislodge the fruits. Because it is very tall, I have to stand directly under it to reach the branches forcing me to take refuge in a rain slicker, boots, and long rubber gloves. Did I neglect to mention that the fruits cause a rash if you get the juice on your skin? So, yes, while I stand with hundreds of vomit bombs falling all around me, I do indeed wonder why I haven't taken down the tree.
But there are joys to my stinky tree. Fifteen years ago when we moved into our home, the street was somewhat of a mecca for Chinese and Japanese immigrants looking for a reminder of home. There were four female ginkgo trees in one block. Each fall carloads of families would appear with long poles to knock down the fruits and harvest them. I enjoyed speaking with them and learning about how this food fit in their culture. But over the years all my neighbors had their trees removed to avoid the mess and stench. This was not without controversy. One neighbor actually stood on the sidewalk and cried as he watched a perfectly healthy tree being sawed to bits.
Today I steeled myself for the annual rain of putrid fruits and marched out to complete the harvest with a cheerful mind. A few minutes into the task, I looked up to re-position the pole I was using and an errant fruit literally hit me between the eyes. After saying some choice words and cleaning up (remember the rash?) I set about my work again. My mind considerably less cheerful, I began to wish ill upon the tree.
Just as my curses for the tree were reaching a crescendo, a car drove up. Out pops a well-dressed Chinese woman. It is Anny, one of the women who came last year to pick up some fruits. She is beaming as she gets out her bags and bowls to begin picking up the fruits. We hadn't called or emailed each other. She was simply driving by to seeing if the fruits were ripe yet and there I was in the middle of the harvest. We were both a little stunned by the odd coincidence.
Anny walks gingerly while navigating the aromatic minefield created by the fruits. We both laugh when she makes a mis-step and a fruit crunches under her heel. Her shoes, four inch wedges, are woefully inappropriate for the task. We work together in silence as we scoop up the bounty. Neither of us feels the need to chatter. Suddenly I don't mind the stench or the slight throb in my forehead from being beaned on the head so many times.
Why don't I cut down this tree? Because it brings me together with so many people I wouldn't otherwise meet. Anny speaks broken English and I've seen her only three times, but she feels like an old friend. I like talking to my neighbors who stop to complain, commiserate about the stench, or thank me for protecting the tree from destruction. I'm hoping my neighbors will come around to my way of thinking and protect the tree after I've left this world.. After all, ginkgo trees can live thousands of years. I hope mine is still here bringing people together when the next millennium arrives.
