A Chinese Crabapple Tree sits right outside my kitchen window. Over the last six years, I have said some rather rude things about her. The thing is, she usually stays quite cheerful while turning me into the crab. Not a very large tree, she still makes her presence known throughout the year.
In winter, we get along quite nicely. She sleeps peacefully, and her bare limbs look lovely after a snow. For a little while, there’s little to complain about.
Then spring arrives.
By Mother’s Day, she is covered in soft pink blossoms. Too many to count. Delicate and lovely, they turn the view from my kitchen window into something worth stopping to admire.
For a little while.
Then the petals begin to fall.
Everywhere.
Those lovely pink petals become tiny brown bits covering everything beneath her. Add a nice spring rain, and cleaning them up becomes quite a project.
Let the grumbling begin.
She pays no attention.
Throughout the summer, she provides a gathering place for the local birds and a little shade for us. Both are points in her favor.
Then come the crabapples.
Hundreds of them. Tiny, round, and about as welcome underfoot as a collection of marbles. I don’t find them particularly flavorful or colorful. Mostly, I find them annoying.
More grumbling.
She continues her cheerful mission of messiness, happily ignoring every rude comment I send her way. Sometimes I suspect she enjoys them, while I have considered having her removed. Usually while I’m cleaning up something she’s dropped.
But this fall?
Oh, my.
Her leaves have turned the most unbelievable, vibrant orange. From my kitchen window, I can hardly look at anything else.
Spectacular.
Of course, those leaves are now covering the ground.
Everywhere.
Apparently, she believes a beautiful performance deserves a generous confetti shower.
After the apricot, she is my favorite tree. Although this autumn, she seems determined to make me reconsider the rankings.
Our tree doctor stopped by for his fall visit. He said he had never seen anything quite like her—or the apricot. Diamonds in the desert, both.
For all my complaints, I would miss her outside that window. The birds would, too. And I would certainly miss the pink blossoms in May and this glorious orange show in October.
Twice a year, she reminds me why she gets to stay. The rest of the time, I remind her that someone has to clean up after her. It seems to be an arrangement we can both live with.
She will keep making her messes. I will keep grumbling. And every so often, she will make me stop at the kitchen window and forget every rude thing I ever said.
Her place is safe for another season.
The crabapple and the apricot. Just two more mysteries in this magical place we call Winterpast.