by Wynn Eisman

Created on: February 18, 2009   Last Updated: March 01, 2009

I was outside, helping Mum dig a small hole in the cold, frosty ground of the Walnut tree.

"How fitting," I thought, "a cold ground under a forbidding tree for a cold, forbidding man." Hey, I know it's not pretty, but its how I felt.

Until I saw the photos that Mum had out, ready to put into the ground with Dads ashes. Those photos jolted me straight out of the complacency of youth and gave me my first glimpse at the depth of my Fathers capacity to love.

The walnut tree was Dads. It was the only plant in the fruit-laden yard that he had chosen, and the only one in which he showed the slightest interest.

It was the logical place, then, to put his ashes when he died.

Over the years they were married, Mum had chosen, planted and nurtured sweet, juicy apricots, peaches, plums, red currants, and apples. She had complimented the trees with the heady scents of lavender and roses, and lovingly surrounded them all by intertwining honeysuckle, jasmine, and wisteria around the fence-line. Poppies bobbed their summer heads in laid-back approval.

But not Dad; all he wanted to grow was a Black Walnut tree. So Mum helped Dad to plant one. Having never grown a nut tree before, Mum read all she could find on the subject. Eventually, she chose the spot and prepared the ground. She chose the tree and nurtured it through its tender youth.

But that didn't change the fact: this was Dads tree

After a few years, we were all enjoying the fruit from Mums trees. We made jams and gorged ourselves as gluts of ever- ripening fruit were brought into the house.

But there were yet to be any walnuts. We were all stunned speechless, a mean feat if involving six teenage girls, when Dad told us that walnut trees can take more than ten years to bear fruit.

"Who would bother?" we whispered amongst ourselves as we snickered in superiority, behind our Fathers back.

Eventually, although we had never bothered to imagine the day, we were eating walnuts from Dads tree. They were nice enough, but Dads enthusiasm for this tree, when compared to his indifference toward the rest of the garden, made us girls uncomfortable and we generally left him alone with his walnuts.

Mum and I finally chipped away a hole large enough for the ashes and we were ready to open the crematorium-provided box. It was an awkward moment; Dad had been farewelled at the funeral, a full month earlier, and no more needed to be said. But it felt rude to say nothing.

So we spoke, in hushed tones, of practical matters:

"Do you think the hole is deep

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