The Peach Tree
A project about neighboring, stewardship, and reciprocity
Winter
I always avoided making work in Harrisburg during the winter months. The winters in the Northeast feel pretty brutal to so many of us who live here. And it’s not just the cold and the snow or ice, it’s this thing that my crew calls “Pennsylvania Grey.” Now, Pennsylvania Grey is a particular weather, dampness, chill, and colorlessness that empties out the containers of our bodies and brains that positively charge our lives. And I am fairly certain there is a direct thread from Pennsylvania Grey to Seasonal Affective Disorder. Toward the end of February, I feel like I am affectively circling the fucking drain.
And maybe in response to this overall feel of the season, I tend to overlook the days when the sun shines in spite of the cold and the particular gifts it has to offer. Not this year. I will let myself rest in the fog of Pennsylvania Grey and when the sun comes out, I will put on my winter coat and gather just enough light to feed me through the end of my wintering.
January
I have to leave the house. It is medicine. The cold air, the delicate skeletons of my garden, the orange sun touching the houses and reaching down the alleys. It makes the tall structures glimmer at their tops.
I run into neighbors. There’s Phil who sees me walking and pulls the car over to tell me he’s working on Peter’s folks house around the corner, that our birthdays are coming up and he loves me.
Julie is walking the dog. She apologizes for wearing sweats because she’s been working from home. I’m just so happy to see her during hibernation months.
I notice the masonry that needs repair and then look up to see the house is glowing.
February
The seed pods of the milkweed that someone before us planted are poking out of the snow. I know we’ll be seeing the monarchs again this summer.
The figure of the jade plant moves down the front of the dresser I saved from the basement of my parents house. I am astonished that both have survived this long. I hope they both outlive me with minor pockmarks.
Back in November, I tucked Smooth Blue Aster that I picked from the treeline of the lake into the pages of a large book. I’m pretty sure they were planted by Rocky and Sandy, unofficial gardeners of that part of Italian Lake. Their house on the corner and the hill down to the lake blooms in succession through the warmer seasons. I managed to pluck the last of the blooms before the winter hoping to make cyanotypes at some point–forgot about them until now.
They are another thing that comes from the earth that is the color of an amethyst. A birthstone flower for my birthday.
