The Richmond house in Fremont, as we call it, is a lovely two bedroom house with a front yard and back yard. Also, because my grandparents, who bought this house in the fifties, were adament gardeners, the property is equipped with a 30+ year old orchard of ten fruit trees.
When we arrived in August, the summer bounty was at it's peak with some pears expiring. For the first time I experienced the pleasure of picking apples off a tree and eating them. We had two apple trees and two fig trees lush with fruit. I suddenly remembered the ecstacy of growing up with these particular figs, which I never found comparably good from any store. We had black figs and green figs, both incredibly delicious. The wonder I suddenly found in myself when I observed these fruit trees was like magic. Suddenly fears of getting dirty, cutting myself, or being attacked by a mean fruit spider had vanished. I was living the fantasy of utter self-reliance, and developing a huge taste for freshly-picked fruit.
Okay, so the move from the city wasn't so terrible, I thought. Here is a home of a long tradition of gardening that I have eagerly adopted.
Aside from an abundant summer harvest, we had roses. 5 rose bushes in the front to be exact. I don't know what kind, but we certainly have a sterling silver, and some spicy fragrant red roses.
When I lived in San Francisco and was terribly broke, I actually fought off kleptomaniac impulses to steal the fuschias from the neighboring corporation. Here in Richmond, we had our own Fuschia.
Yes, there was much to be done at this untended garden. There were plants I completely didn't identiffy with, or even want to look at, and so much pruning of overgrown trees. But it was an excellent place to be at the peak of my passion for gardening.
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