Posts from — December 2008

I grew up in Illinois along a place called Persimmon Drive.  Never did I see a persimmon on Persimmon Drive.   At night, the high beams reflect the arial epitaphs of plants; mechanical white letters on green rectangles like chiseled granite on botanic tombstones.  Here once stood the mighty persimmon tree and its delectable orange berries. Cherry trees on Cherry Lane,  oak trees on Oak Street, and how do you suppose Hickory Lane was decided upon?

When I return to Persimmon Drive I will plant persimmon trees.

What would happen if we all returned? Not in some backward arc of sentiment, but a movement toward a fruit bearing future; a protest to the death of place directed by the markings of white on green.  No matter that many were picked from a book of common names; I promote the lie of a botanic future.

After the first frost we can sit together with our backs against the blocky bark and talk about short days in long midwestern winters.  We can eat ripe American persimmons and wonder if the seeds really can predict a cold future.