The Pomegranate Trees

I

MY uncle was just about the worst farmer that ever lived. He was too imaginative and poetic for his own good. What he wanted was beauty. He wanted to plant it and see it grow. I myself planted over one hundred pomegranate trees for my uncle one year back there in the good old days of poetry and youth in the world. I drove a John Deere tractor too, and so did my uncle. It was all pure æsthetics, not agriculture. My uncle just liked the idea of planting trees and watching them grow.

Only they would n’t grow. It was on account of the soil. The soil was desert soil. It was dry. My uncle waved at the six hundred and eighty acres of desert he had bought and he said in the most poetic Armenian anybody ever heard, ‘Here in this awful desolation a garden shall flower, fountains of cold water shall bubble out of the earth, and all things of beauty shall come into being.’

‘Yes, sir,’ I said.

I was the first and only relative to see the land he had bought. He knew I was a poet at heart, and he believed I would understand the magnificent impulse that was driving him to glorious ruin. I did. I knew as well as he that what he had purchased was worthless desert land. It was away over to hell and gone, at the foot of the Sierra Nevada mountains. It was full of every kind of desert plant that ever sprang out of dry hot earth. It was overrun with prairie dogs, squirrels, horned toads, snakes, and a variety of smaller forms of life. The space over this land knew only the presence of hawks, eagles, and buzzards. It was a region of loneliness, emptiness, truth, and dignity. It was nature at its proudest, dryest, loneliest, and loveliest.

My uncle and I got out of the Ford roadster in the middle of his land and began to walk over the dry earth.

‘This land,’ he said, ‘is my land.’

He walked slowly, kicking into the dry soil. A horned toad scrambled over the earth at my uncle’s feet. My uncle clutched my shoulder and came to a pious halt.

‘What is that animal?’ he said.

‘That little tiny lizard?’ I said.

‘That mouse with horns,’ my uncle said. ‘What is it?’

‘I don’t know for sure,’ I said. ‘We call them horny toads.’

The horned toad came to a halt about three feet away and turned its head.

My uncle looked down at the small animal.

‘Is it poison?’ he said.

‘To eat?’ I said. ‘Or if it bites you?’

‘Either way,’ my uncle said.

‘I don’t think it’s good to eat,’ I said. ‘I think it’s harmless. I’ve caught many of them. They grow sad in captivity, but never bite. Shall I catch this one?’

‘Please do,’ my uncle said.

I sneaked up on the horned toad, then sprang on it while my uncle looked on.

‘Careful,’ he said. ‘Are you sure it is n’t poison ? ’

‘I’ve caught many of them,’ I said.

I took the horned toad to my uncle. He tried not to seem afraid.

‘A lovely little thing, is n’t it?’ he said. His voice was unsteady.

‘Would you like to hold it?’ I said.

‘No,’ my uncle said. ‘You hold it. I have never before been so close to such a thing as this. I see it has eyes. I suppose it can see us.’

‘I suppose it can,’ I said. ‘It’s looking up at you now.’

My uncle looked the horned toad straight in the eye. The horned toad looked my uncle straight in the eye. For fully half a minute they looked one another straight in the eye and then the horned toad turned its head aside and looked down at the ground. My uncle sighed with relief.

‘A thousand of them,’ he said, ‘could kill a man, I suppose.’

‘They never travel in great numbers,’ I said. ’You hardly ever see more than one at a time.’

‘A big one,’ my uncle said, ‘could probably bite a man to death.’

‘They don’t grow big,’ I said. ‘This is as big as they grow.’

‘They seem to have an awful eye for such small creatures,’ my uncle said. ‘Are you sure they don’t mind being picked up?’

‘I suppose they forget, all about it the minute you put them down,’ I said.

‘Do you really think so?’ my uncle said.

‘I don’t think they have very good memories,’ I said.

My uncle straightened up, breathing deeply.

‘Put the little creature down,’he said. ‘Let us not be cruel to the innocent creations of Almighty God. If it is not poison and grows no larger than a mouse and does not travel in great numbers and has no memory to speak of, let the timid little thing return to the earth. Let us be gentle toward these small things which live on the earth with us.’

‘Yes, sir,’ I said.

I placed the horned toad on the ground.

‘Gently now,’ my uncle said. ‘Let no harm come to this strange dweller on my land.’

The horned toad scrambled away.

‘These little things,’ I said, ‘have been living on soil of this kind for centuries.’

‘Centuries?’ my uncle said. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m not sure,’ I said, ‘but I imagine they have. They’re still here, anyway.’

My uncle looked around at his land, at the cactus and brush growing out of it, at the sky overhead.

‘What have they been eating all this time?’ he shouted.

‘I don’t know,’ I said.

‘What would you say they’ve been eating?’ he said.

‘Insects, I guess.’

‘Insects?’ my uncle shouted. ’What sort of insects?'

‘Little bugs, most likely,’ I said. ‘I don’t know their names. I can find out to-morrow at school.’

‘Please do,’ my uncle said.

II

We continued to walk over the dry land. When we came to some holes in the earth my uncle stood over them and said, ‘What lives down there?’

‘Prairie dogs,’ I said.

‘What are they?’ he said.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘they’re something like rats. They belong to the rodent family.’

‘What are all these things doing on my land?’ my uncle said.

‘They don’t know it’s your land,’ I said. ‘They’ve been living here a long while.’

‘I don’t suppose that horny toad ever looked a man in the eye before,’ my uncle said.

‘I don’t think so,’ I said.

‘Do you think I scared it or anything?’ my uncle said.

‘I don’t know for sure,’ I said.

‘If I did,’ my uncle said, ‘I did n’t mean to. I’m going to build a house here some day.’

‘I did n’t know that,’ I said.

‘Of course,’ my uncle said. ‘I’m going to build a magnificent house.’

‘It’s pretty far away,’ I said.

‘It’s only an hour from town,’ my uncle said.

‘If you go fifty miles an hour,’ I said.

‘It’s not fifty miles to town,’ my uncle said. ‘It’s thirty-seven.’

‘Well, you’ve got to take a little time out for rough roads,’ I said.

‘I’ll build me the finest house in the world,’ my uncle said. ‘What else lives on this land?’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘there are three or four kinds of snakes.’

‘Poison or non-poison?’ my uncle said.

‘Mostly non-poison,’ I said. ‘The rattlesnake is poison, though.’

‘Do you mean to tell me there are rattlesnakes on this land?’ my uncle said.

‘This is the kind of land rattlesnakes usually live on,’ I said.

‘How many?’ my uncle said.

‘Per acre?’ I said. ‘Or on the whole six hundred and eighty acres?’

‘Per acre,’ my uncle said.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’d say there are about three per acre, conservatively.’

‘Three per acre?’ my uncle shouted. ’Conservatively?’

‘Maybe only two,’ I said.

‘How many is that to the whole place?’ my uncle said.

‘Well, let’s see,’ I said. ‘Two per acre. Six hundred and eighty acres. About fifteen hundred of them.’

‘Fifteen hundred of them?’ my uncle said.

‘An acre is pretty big,’ I said. ‘Two rattlesnakes per acre is n’t many. You don’t often see them.’

‘What else have we got around here that’s poison?’ my uncle said.

‘I don’t know of anything else,’ I said. ‘All the other things are harmless. The rattlesnakes are pretty harmless too, unless you step on them.’

‘All right,’ my uncle said. ‘You walk ahead and watch where you’re going. If you see a rattlesnake, don’t step on it. I don’t want you to die at the age of eleven.’

‘Yes, sir,’ I said. ’I’ll watch carefully.’

III

We turned around and walked back to the Ford. I did n’t see any rattlesnakes on the way back. We got into the car and my uncle lighted a cigarette.

‘I’m going to make a garden of this awful desolation,’ he said.

‘Yes, sir,’ I said.

‘I know what my problems are,’ my uncle said, ‘and I know how to solve them.’

‘How?’ I said.

‘Do you mean the horny toads or the rattlesnakes?’ my uncle said.

‘I mean the problems,’ I said.

‘Well,’ my uncle said, ‘the first thing I’m going to do is hire some Mexicans and put them to work.’

‘Doing what?’ I said.

‘Clearing the land,’ my uncle said. ‘Then I’m going to have them dig for water.’

‘Dig where?’ I said.

‘Straight down,’ my uncle said. ‘After we get water, I’m going to have them plough the land and then I’m going to plant.’

‘What are you going to plant?’ I said. ‘Wheat?’

‘Wheat?’ my uncle shouted. ‘What do I want with wheat? Bread is five cents a loaf. I’m going to plant pomegranate trees.’

‘How much are pomegranates?’ I said.

‘Pomegranates,’ my uncle said, ‘are practically unknown in this country.’

‘Is that all you’re going to plant?’ I said.

‘I have in mind,’ my uncle said, ‘planting several other kinds of trees.’

‘Peach trees?’ I said.

‘About ten acres,’ my uncle said.

‘How about apricots?’ I said.

‘By all means,’my uncle said. ‘The apricot is a lovely fruit. Lovely in shape, with a glorious flavor and a most delightful pit. I shall plant about twenty acres of apricot trees.’

‘I hope the Mexicans don’t have any trouble finding water,’ I said. ‘Is there water under this land?’

‘Of course,’ my uncle said. ‘The important thing is to get started. I shall instruct the men to watch out for rattlesnakes. Pomegranates,’ he said. ‘ Peaches. Apricots. What else ? ’

‘Figs?’ I said.

‘Thirty acres of figs,’ my uncle said.

‘How about mulberries?’ I said. ‘The mulberry tree is a very nice-looking tree.'

‘Mulberries,’my uncle said. He moved his tongue around in his mouth. ‘A nice tree,’ he said. ‘A tree I knew well in the old country. How many acres would you suggest?’

‘About ten,’ I said.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘What else?’

‘Olive trees are nice,’ I said.

‘Yes, they are,’ my uncle said. ‘One of the nicest. About ten acres of olive trees. What else?’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘I don’t suppose apple trees would grow on this kind of land.’

‘I suppose not,’ my uncle said. ‘I don’t like apples anyway.’

He started the car and we drove off the dry land on to the dry road. The car bounced about slowly until we reached the road and then we began to travel at a higher rate of speed.

‘One thing,’ my uncle said. ‘When we get home I would rather you did n’t mention this farm to the folks.’

‘Yes, sir,’ I said. (‘Farm?’ I thought. ‘What farm?’)

‘I want to surprise them,’ my uncle said. ‘ You know how your grandmother is. I ’ll go ahead with my plans and when everything is in order I ’ll take the whole family out to the farm and surprise them.'

‘Yes, sir,’ I said.

‘Not a word to a living soul,’ he said.

‘Yes, sir,’ I said.

IV

Well, the Mexicans went to work and cleared the land. They cleared about ten acres of it in about two months. There were seven of them. They worked with shovels and hoes. They did n’t understand anything about anything. It all seemed very strange, but they never complained. They were being paid and that was the thing that counted. They were two brothers and their sons. One day the older brother, Diego, very politely asked my uncle what it was they were supposed to be doing.

‘Señor,’ he said, ‘please forgive me. Why are we cutting down the cactus?’

‘I’m going to farm this land,’my uncle said.

The other Mexicans asked Diego in Mexican what my uncle had said and Diego told them.

They did n’t believe it was worth the trouble to tell my uncle he could n’t do it. They just went on cutting down the cactus.

The cactus, however, stayed down only for a short while. The land which had been first cleared was already rich again with fresh cactus and brush. My uncle made this observation with considerable amazement.

‘ It takes deep ploughing to get rid of cactus,’ I said. ‘You’ve got to plough it out.’

My uncle talked the matter over with Ryan, who had a farm-implement business. Ryan told him not to fool with horses. The modern thing to do was to turn a good tractor loose on the land and do a year’s work in a day.

So my uncle bought a John Deere tractor. It was beautiful. A mechanic from Ryan’s taught Diego how to operate the tractor, and the next day when my uncle and I reached the land we could see the tractor away out in the desolation and we could hear it booming in the awful emptiness of the desert. It sounded pretty awful. It was awful. My uncle thought it was wonderful.

‘Progress,’he said. ‘There’s the modern age for you. Ten thousand years ago,’he said, ‘it would have taken a hundred men a week to do what that tractor’s done to-day.’

‘Ten thousand years ago?’ I said. ‘You mean yesterday.’

‘Anyway,’my uncle said, ‘there’s nothing like these modern conveniences.'

‘The tractor is n’t a convenience,’I said.

‘What is it, then?’ my uncle said. ‘Does n’t the driver sit?’

‘He could n’t very well stand,’I said.

‘Any time they let you sit,’my uncle said, ‘it’s a convenience. Can you whistle?’

‘Yes, sir,’ I said. ‘ What sort of a song would you like to hear?’

‘Song?’ my uncle said. ‘I don’t want to hear any song. I want you to whistle at that Mexican on the tractor.’

‘What for?’ I said.

‘Never mind what for.’ my uncle said. ‘Just whistle. I want him to know we are here and that we are pleased with his work. He’s probably ploughed twenty acres.’

‘Yes, sir,’I said.

I put the second and third fingers of each hand into my mouth and blew with all my might. It was good and loud. Nevertheless, it did n’t seem as if Diego had heard me. He was pretty far away. We were walking toward him anyway, so I could n’t figure out why my uncle wanted me to whistle at him.

‘Once again, please,’ he said.

I whistled once again, but again Diego did n’t hear.

‘Louder,’ my uncle said.

This next time I gave it all I had, and my uncle put his hands over his ears. My face got very red, too. The Mexican on the tractor heard the whistle this time. He slowed the tractor down, turned it around, and began ploughing straight across the field toward us.

‘Do you want him to do that?’ I said.

‘It does n’t matter,’ my uncle said.

In less than a minute and a half the tractor and the Mexican arrived. The Mexican seemed very delighted. He wiped dirt and perspiration off his face and got down from the tractor.

‘Señor,’ he said, ‘this is wonderful.’

‘I’m glad you like it,’ my uncle said.

‘Would you like a ride?’ the Mexican asked my uncle.

My uncle did n’t know for sure. He looked at me.

‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘Hop on. Have a little ride.’

Diego got on the tractor and helped me on. He sat on the metal seat and I stood behind him, holding him. The tractor began to shake, then jumped, and then began to move. It moved swiftly and made a good deal of noise. The Mexican drove around in a big circle and brought the tractor back to my uncle. I jumped off.

‘All right,’ my uncle said to the Mexican. ‘ Go back to your work.’

The Mexican drove the tractor back to where he was ploughing.

V

My uncle did n’t get water out of the land until many months later. He had wells dug all over the place, but no water came out of the wells. Of course he had motor pumps too, but even then no water came out. A water specialist named Roy came out from Texas with his two younger brothers and they began investigating the land. They told my uncle they’d get water for him. It took them three months and the water was muddy and there was n’t much of it. There was a trickle of muddy water. The specialist told my uncle matters would improve with time and went back to Texas.

Now half the land was cleared and ploughed and there was water, so the time had come to plant.

We planted pomegranate trees. They were of the finest quality and very expensive. We planted about seven hundred of them. I myself planted a hundred. My uncle planted quite a few. We had a twenty-acre orchard of pomegranate trees away over to hell and gone in the strangest desolation anybody ever saw. It was the loveliest-looking absurdity imaginable and my uncle was crazy about it. The only trouble was, his money was giving out. Instead of going ahead and trying to make a garden of the whole six hundred and eighty acres, he decided to devote all his time and energy and money to the pomegranate trees.

‘Only for the time being,’ he said. ‘Until we begin to market the pomegranates and get our money back.’

‘Yes, sir,’ I said.

I did n’t know for sure, but I figured we should n’t be getting any pomegranates to speak of off those little trees for two or three years at least, but I did n’t say anything. My uncle got rid of the Mexican workers and he and I took over the farm. We had the tractor and a lot of land, so every now and then we drove out to the farm and drove the tractor around, ploughing up cactus and turning over the soil between the pomegranate trees. This went on for three years.

‘One of these days,’ my uncle said, ‘you’ll see the loveliest garden in the world in this desert.’

The water situation did n’t improve with time, either. Every once in a while there would be a sudden generous spurt of water containing only a few pebbles and my uncle would be greatly pleased, but the next day it would be muddy again and there would be only a little trickle. The pomegranate trees fought bravely for life, but they never did get enough water to come out with any fruit.

There were blossoms after the fourth year. This was a great triumph for my uncle. He went out of his head with joy when he saw them.

Nothing much ever came of the blossoms, though. They were very beautiful, but that was about all.

That year my uncle harvested three small pomegranates.

I ate one, he ate one, and we kept the other one up in his office.

VI

The following year I was fifteen. A lot of wonderful things had happened to me. I mean, I had read a number of good writers and I’d grown as tall as my uncle. The farm was still our secret. It had cost my uncle a lot of money, but he was always under the impression that very soon he was going to start marketing his pomegranates and get his money back and go on with his plan to make a garden in the desert.

The trees did n’t fare very well. They grew a little, but it was hardly noticeable. Quite a few of them withered and died.

‘That’s average,’ my uncle said. ‘Twenty trees to an acre is only average. We won’t plant new trees just now. We’ll do that later.’

He was still paying for the land, too.

The following year he harvested about two hundred pomegranates. He and I did the harvesting. They were pretty sad-looking pomegranates. We packed them in nice-looking boxes and my uncle shipped them to a wholesale produce house in Chicago. There were eleven boxes.

We did n’t hear from the wholesale produce house for a month, so one night my uncle made a long-distance phone call. The produce man, D’Agostino, told my uncle nobody wanted pomegranates.

‘How much are you asking per box?’ my uncle shouted over the phone.

‘One dollar,’ D’Agostino shouted back. ‘That’s not enough,’ my uncle shouted. ‘I won’t take a nickel less than five dollars a box.’

‘They don’t want them at one dollar a box,’ D’Agostino shouted.

‘Why not?’ my uncle shouted.

‘They don’t know what they are,’ D’Agostino shouted.

‘What kind of a business man are you anyway?’ my uncle shouted. ‘They’re pomegranates. I want five dollars a box.’

‘I can’t sell them,’ the produce man shouted. ‘I ate one myself and I don’t see anything so wonderful about them.’

‘You’re crazy,’ my uncle shouted. ‘There is no other fruit in the world like the pomegranate. Five dollars a box is n’t half enough.’

‘What shall I do with them?’ D’Agostino shouted. ‘I can’t sell them. I don’t want them.’

‘I see,’ my uncle whispered. ‘Ship them back. Ship them back express collect.’

The phone call cost my uncle about seventeen dollars.

So the eleven boxes came back.

My uncle and I ate most of the pomegranates.

The following year my uncle could n’t make any more payments on the land. He gave the papers back to the man who had sold him the land. I was in the office at the time.

‘Mr. Griffith,’ my uncle said, ‘I’ve got to give you back your property, but I would like to ask a little favor. I’ve planted twenty acres of pomegranate trees out there on that land and I’d appreciate it very much if you’d take care of them trees.’

‘Take care of them?’ Mr. Griffith said. ‘ What in the world for?’

My uncle tried to explain, but could n’t. It was too much to try to explain to a man who was n’t sympathetic.

So my uncle lost the land.

About three years later he and I drove out to the land and walked out to the pomegranate orchard. The trees were all dead. The soil was heavy again with cactus and desert brush. Except for the small dead pomegranate trees the place was exactly the way it had been all the years of the world.

We walked around in the orchard for a while and then went back to the car.

We got into the car and drove back to town.

We did n’t say anything because there was such an awful lot to say, and no language to say it in.