those taken or not

-- intransitive verb -- i.e., : to establish a take especially by uniting or growing : 90 % of the grafts take -- what is able to take a foothold in life and what cannot.

 

You see the withered sapling Nola planted last fall, sere, sad, shoved ground ward by the winter wind.  Your boots crunch on the icy layer of snow that fell yesterday. You glance again at the tree:

it didn’t take -- for some reason.  Nola always lavished attention on her house and garden.  the moles must have nibbled the delicate roots so only the fragile body remains, the wind causing the dried top to drag over the icy layer. a shame it didn’t take.

          Nola has seen you walking down the path to her kitchen porch and hurries to open the door, pulling you inside.

          “Goodness, girl, you picked a blue cold day to come a-callin’!  Anything amiss?”

          You assure her that all is well, and what with winter keeping you housebound, this morning appeared to give you the first opportunity take a walk without wading through knee-high snow. You share Nola’s chuckle. As you remove your winter bundling, Nola pours you a big country mug of steaming coffee and sets it on the long worn kitchen table.

          “You just go on and sit down, hon.  I need to wipe these dishes I just done, and then I’ll sit down with you.  Here’s some those gingersnaps you like.”

          Nola slides onto the table a plate of crispy, dark brown cookies subtly jeweled with tiny pieces of candied ginger.

          You compliment Nola’s cookie artistry with an appreciative “mmmmmmmm.”  After a sip of the coffee, you mention the sad little sapling outside.

          “I am so frustrated about that danged thing -- that’s the second pear tree I’ve tried in as many years,” Nola’s voice is still raspy from her last winter cold.  “It just didn’t take.  Come to think of it, neither did my last bread starter or the twenty crocus bulbs I put out by the chicken coop.”

          As you clasp your coffee with both hands, drawing the warmth into your body, you protest to Nola that surely it is still too cold yet for crocus to push their way up through wintry ground.

          “Aren’t you a clever girl?  Well, I planted those crocus bulbs two falls ago.  So it’s pretty clear they didn’t take.”

          You watch Nola with expectant eyes, knowing she will continue to talk and tell all.  Nola sinks into a kitchen chair with a sigh.  She has a cup of coffee too and reaches for a couple of gingersnaps.

          “I’m gonna dunk these,” she giggles. “I’d tan one of my kids if I caught ‘em doin’ it, but they’re all at school so Mama can break her own rules.  You recall Fred?  He’s one of Albert’s farm hands, real reliable, seemed like a good man.  Well, he’s done quit.  Been steppin’ out with Alice Durbin for twelve month or more, but she up and broke it off last week, tellin’ poor Fred that she just wanted to be friends. Lordy, men don’t want women to be their friends.  They get all the friends they want at horse races, poker tables, barn-raisin’s, taverns and maybe a church social or two.  I say somebody, better be Mrs. Durbin, needs to tell Alice what a wife is compared to a friend.  I think Alice and Mrs. Durbin read all those trashy dime romances that Richard started sellin’ at the dry goods store.  That Mrs. Durbin, I don’t see her around much.  Albert says she sends her fancy maid to do her shoppin’.  Albert says she’s one of those fragile ladies, always poorly, always fainting and then layin’ around being delicate.  That wouldn’t work at my house.  Albert come in and catch me a-lyin’ on the floor, he’s as apt to bury me straightaway as anything else. 

“Might give little Miss Alice a turn or two, but true’s true, and a girl oughta know what to expect when she’s a married woman.  Well, Fred was real busted up about it.  Right away he packed up his stuff and took off, saying he’s goin’ back to Vermont to work for his pa.  Funny though, when Fred and Alice first started steppin’ out, we all thought it was a real match -- they were just like two peas in a pod.  Remember?  Just shows we can’t know everything, I reckon.  And maybe being so alike wouldn’t make for good marriage partners -- too much thinking alike, both tempers might be fireballs or both of ‘em turn out bone lazy and everything goes to seed. Yes, I guess such as that just has to run its course to see if it will take.”

You murmur regrets for Alice.

“Well, Alice didn’t get a broken heart out of it, did she?  She’s already sashayin’ all over town, gussied up to her eyeballs trying to catch a new beau.  She’s gettin’ some attention, but not sure it’s the kind she wants.  Guess that’s why Fred felt he had to leave.  He couldn’t stand the thought of seein’ her, knowin’ all his dreams had been trod under her feet. Poor Fred.”

You briefly commiserate with Nola about poor Fred.  But the time has come for you to get back to town.  Nola showers you with requests for more visits, urging you take care and warning you to open no doors to that slick new drummer seen in these parts lately.  After sharing a warm hug, you step out onto Nola’s porch and hear the door close behind you.

Light snow is falling, and it spirals like pixie dancers across Nola’s wide porch.  The wind is strong enough to set Nola’s old oak rocker rocking slowly on the corner of the porch where it always sits.

You pull your muffler up over your nose and slide your mittened hands inside your muff.  You step off the porch and walk the path to the road. As you walk along, your eyes are drawn to the pitiful sapling:  no hope for that.

 

it just didn’t take. but the seed of hope that each carries must survive, mustn’t it?

what remains of pear trees that didn’t take, besides strips of dead wood

and dry, crumbly leaves?

what of all the flowers, the friends?

what of all the baby chicks and eggs fallen from the nest?

what of all the loves, the lusts, the longings?

what of tiny embryos?

what of stars, what of dreams?

are they like fireflies?

do they visit us to try to glimpse the ever-burning hope

within us -- the hope that pushed them towards life?

all those things that just didn’t take,

now they are taken from us

and half-live in the cold ether with memories never made.

Author's Note

I have fixed some punctuation in this.