Letter to Tree Huggers et Al.

Dear Tree Huggers et Al,

I know how trees are good, I know that they gon save the world by absorbing carbon and so on...that is why I got this li’l dilemma now...

...let me start from scratch - which is what this bleddy ingrate of a lime tree do to me every time I pass it, every single blessed minute I go near that tree to work on other plants, that tree scratch at me with sharp, shrewish plimpa, man look, I does get so vex I does want to - anyway, as I was saying, lemme start from scratch.

Some months ago, I write about this lime tree. To refresh memories, look the story here again:

We lime tree is behaving like a hard-mouth, vex woman. Kinda like that young teacher-nun with the unyielding spirit. Amongst them happy-go-lucky nuns in we high-school, she been so displeased all the time that them girls-students used to whisper and giggle, she need a man.

For five years we lime tree been taking up space in we backyard, breathing in precious carbon that other trees could very well use…and not a lime it produce.

“Mummy, you think I should threaten it?”

“No, don’t threaten it, it gon bear,” me mother say. The way she talk, so full o’ sympathy, you would think the lime-tree was she pickney, she very own chile.

Forget scientific reasoning. Threatening a fruit tree is the best way to get it to bear, ask any self-respecting gardener here. You hold you cutlass, knife, axe, saw over the tree and say, “You [expletive of choice]…if you [expletive of choice] don’t grow I gon chop you [expletive of choice].”

And the next thing you know, the tree does bear fruit.

When me was a teen, I witness this once, with me own two eyes. And as everybody know, once...one, single time...is absolute proof for all times.

Was a typical happy morning, sun shining, fluffy white flocks sleeping in the blue sky. All o’ we been in we yard. By all o’ we, I mean the regular motley crew - siblings, brothers friends, dawgs, cats, parrot, turtle and so on.

Suddenly, just by the edge of the garden in front, I spot my second brother, F., tall, dark and fierce, furrowing-up he eyebrows, holding cutlass, muttering to he friend, kind, gentle F. [Both o’ them got the same initial for they first name].

What the!?! I sidle up to find out.

My brother whispering to he friend, “I gon threaten it, and you gon say, no, no, don’t chop it, give it a chance.”

The two o’ them walk over to we tangerine tree. This tree never bear not even one, single, solitary tangerine in all the days we know it.

Brother raise he cutlass. “You….if you….don’t start to bear I gon chop you...”

“No, no, don’t chop it, give it a chance.”

“You think I should give it a chance? You really think so?”

“Yes, give it a chance.”

The tangerine tree musta think, look at these two F., threatening me. I gon teach them a good lesson.

The tangerine tree bear one, single, solitary tangerine. It been so sour that everybody who taste it, they tongue twast sideways for days after.

The tangerine tree never bear again.

Me mother say if I threaten the lime-tree it might do like what the tangerine tree do; give it time, it gon bear properly and plenty.

Well, I put fresh earth, cow dung, compost, I water it. I waiting.

As for the sour-mouth nun from we high-school days, I hear she didn’t bother to take all she vows; she leave to marry. I hope she smiling now.

Maybe we lime tree need a man.

Well Tree Huggers et Al, I do everything that dear readers suggest, I talk to the tree, I sing, whisper, plead, I mole-up the tree, threaten it...I do everything except give it a man because I couldn’t find a willing one...and what a good thing I didn’t because hear this now...and this is what is causing me dilemma...

The other day Mr. Tin-Can [who used to collect tin cans to sell] come here to weed...that is right, we don’t use chemicals in this here Amazon-garden. My mother casually mention to Mr. Tin-Can that the lime-tree refuse to bear.

Mr. Tin-Can who don’t really do gardening but, like all good Guyanese he got opinions, say in he quiet, well-mannered way, “Well Missis, that is a man tree. Man tree don’t bear. You gon got to cut it down.”

Cut it down! Cut down a carbon-absorbing tree! And I don’t mean just threaten. I mean actually do the deed. So Tree Huggers et Mr. Al Gore, you see me dilemma now? To cut or not to cut.

I’m begging you, please don’t petition me, I feel guilty enough already. And don’t think of coming here to hug this tree, like I say, it is a’ ingrate, one that gon scratch your eyes out.

I ain’t know what to do.

Yours, ever tree-lovin’ gal but I am quickly changing me mind with this here bleddy miscreant,

G.G.

Do not discard.

That snake skin in the gutter, strangely enough, remind me of something from me past, flowing in me present - stories from ancestors in me blood, and legends from me country that plenty folks here almost forget, that young chil’dren don’t know now.

As soon as my mother (mischievously) say that them snakes in the yard like me, the story of the strangest marriage wriggle out from me memory.

It is the story of the Amerindian girl who did marry a camoudie, a snake that does wrap around man or animal; it can squeeze the life outta you and swallow you wholesale.

The girl, a’ Arawak girl, was beautiful; plenty, plenty men did want to marry she but she refuse. Even pigeon who offer to marry she, she refuse. Then one day, a handsome young man come to ask for she, he arrive with four horses, golden harness and bridle. Right away, the girl say Yes.

Wedding day, everything was glitter and gold, and the handsome groom bring a dress of golden threads for he bride. After the wedding, they set off for the groom home. On the way, he embrace he wife and...

...the wagon turn into a pond and the horses dissolve into water which fill the pond...and the groom become a camoudie.

The girl swim and swim ‘round and ‘round the pond to get away but the camoudie grabble she and wrap around she. She holler and scream for help but nobody ain’t come to rescue she. Finally, all them young men who she did refuse to marry come and surround the pond. They feel sorry for she but couldn’t help, the camoudie been wrap ‘round she so tight. And they tell she how she is getting she right punishment for refusing them in the first place, for choosing that strange, handsome man who gon soon swallow she.

Then there is the story that Pa, me grandpa tell my mother.

One shivery, cold day, a man been walking on the road and he see a snake. The poor snake look dead, coil up so tight and not moving. The man feel sorry for the snake. He pick it up and put it in he coat pocket.

Slow, slow, the snake warm up, wriggle, wriggle, get back he energy...

...and bite the man, kill he dead.

Be careful, Pa used to say, be careful who you trust and take in close to you.

That discarded snake skin in the drain remind me of something else too, that I observe here. Instead of adding we stories to the grand history of man, to help illustrate the story of man, we the people is shedding we tales, leaving them to decay while we take in only them foreign ones now. While I...

...I dream of we stories flowing in we veins, grandparents passing them on, teachers teaching them along with foreign tales. And poets, writers would smartly, proudly refer to them along with Apollo, Cassandra, Persephone and others.

More sssssnake.

Sometimes, dear readers, my life does feel like endless days of stories, anecdotes, drama, comedy, tragic-comedy, punctuated by…

…ssssssssnake!

Aw man, let me not talk about that, let me talk about goodies…

…pine tarts, that is, pineapple jam baked in thin, flaky pastry fold-up like small triangles; biscuits; thick, juicy chunks o’ sweet pineapple; li’l square cakes; sandwiches and tea in delicate teacups…

On Saturday evening we been to auntie-by-the-sea for tea - me and ma and Auntie M. and Uncle J. and a grieving widow. It is a home not far from here with a wide view of the sea. In the verandah we sit, sipping and chatting, watching the brown, unruly tide washooombing high against the seawall. Uncle-by-the-sea make a’ off-hand remark about moon and high tide and the conversation waddle ‘round that for a while, I say something about the November rain finally here after days of screaming white heat.

I point to the house across the road. The man who live there build up a reputation for collecting junk and piling them under he house. Iron, wood, plastic, every scrap that neighbours fling out, he take and keep. As the story go, he got junk under he table, he bed, in he toilet. In the future, if any anthropologist want to study the building habits of we the people, they could go to that spot. Anthropologist wouldn’t see evidence of paint though. Them walls ain’t had one coat o’ paint since the seventies.

“I wonder if that man gon ever paint he house,” I laugh. “He poor wife, I don’t know how she could stand to live there.”

Auntie-by-the-sea say, “His wife said, if she had another life, she would not want to see him ever again, not even his best bones.”

Uncle-by-the-sea say, “One of the neighbours asked him when he’ll paint the house…he told them that he lives inside the house, not the outside.”

Hilarious stories about the mean-spirited ways of the man towards neighbours pass around with the tea. Then, just when the sun glide away to down under, and I been wallowing in the beauty of dark ocean and fishing boats lights dotting horizon, the snake talk punch in.

Electrician find a snake coil-up in the fuse box. Uncle-by-the-sea say it was a thin snake with a small head, look just like one o’ them wires. When the electrician open the fuse box, the snake leap out. This lead to speculation about snakes in we neighbourhood. Which make me thoughts uncoil wildly…me working in we garden…piles of leaves composting…snake curling under…me disturbing leaves…labaria snake…poisonous…

“We should kill every single snake in the world,” I bleat.

Uncle-by-the-sea say, They’re good for the eco-system. I mutter, I don’t care, all snakes must die. My cowardice become the source of amusement but I notice noooobody ain’t say one word about liking snakes and wanting one as a pet even though uncle-by-the-sea talk at length about people Abroad keeping them as pets and snakes is big, big business in pet stores over there.

Yesterday, despite fears, I go into the garden and bravely face the dangers of the Amazon, planting leafy, green vegetable. Tree-cutter, grass-trimmer, sometimes gardener Fazal come by to collect some payment. He stop in we driveway, glance down. And in the drain near the driveway, between garden wall and parapet, what he should spy with he sharp, sharp eye?

“Look a snake shed he skin and leave it there.”

The skin been transparent, long and fat. A big snake.

“Why, why,” I moan and lift mine eyes up to Heaven crying, “Why me Lord?” (Yesterday was Sunday).

“They like you,” my mother say.

Moanday morning.

The hurrieder I go the behinder I get, that is a quote by I ain't know who, but that is me today, I stop for two seconds to gyaff with Annie on the phone and she tell me the most outrageous irreverent things and I laugh like I never laugh since ten moons gone and I forget to tell she how I lock meself out of the house again, I better go do some work...