I sprinted toward the front door at the sound of the ringing doorbell. A lady of about five feet or so stood in front of the brown, wooden door, peering through our dented windows. A plastic bag dangled from her arms.
“Hello?” a surprised me asked, while opening the door slowly. I recognized her as the lady who lived all the way down the street: Mrs. Chen. A week ago, my mom and I had promised her some persimmons from the tree in our backyard. Her arms stretched toward me, motioning me to take the bag.
“We went fishing this morning,” she began, sensing my confusion. She untied the bag to reveal two slippery silver basses in front of me. “This is for you. We caught them in the ocean.” Smiling, she continued, “Your persimmons were delicious, crunchy and sweet like apples. I also make sun-dried persimmons for my two children.” She continued on about how one was pursuing a PhD in New York City while the other worked in a big company in Utah, her face glowing with pride as she dove into extravagant detail. Unsure of what to say, I smiled back at her and occasionally nodded, until she realized she had to hurry back home.
Ship dried persimmons to other states? Was it worth all that effort? I wondered.
Later, my mom brought inside a cardboard box full of freshly picked persimmons from the tree in the backyard after dinner. As she picked out the brightest persimmons and set them on the counter, I was reminded by Mrs. Chen’s visit and my confusion on shipping dried persimmons.
“Persimmons represent luck in Chinese culture,” my mom said. “Traditionally, people will give fresh persimmons to each other as a way to wish friends and family good fortune.”
“What about dried persimmons?”
“Sun-drying persimmons can preserve them for a long time,” she continued. “As long as a year, no problem.”
My mom took the lined-up persimmons one by one and threw them into the sink. As the water from the faucet cascaded down onto them, she began rubbing the skins roughly.
“Actually, did you know? In China when I was an elementary schooler, my parents grew a few persimmon trees in the front yard,” my mom told me. “The gigantic one in front of the house bore the biggest and brightest persimmons. The tree trunk was low enough to climb and sit on.” She glanced out at the drooping persimmon branches in our backyard. Her eyes drifted somewhere far away. Wistfulness surfaced on her face.
There was silence except for the running water from the faucet. I walked to my mother’s side, while she glanced at me and turned off the faucet.
“What are we doing with all these persimmons?” I asked, confused how anyone could possibly eat this many in one go.
“Making dried persimmons for our friends,” she replied while reaching for her favorite kitchen knife. I watched carefully as she effortlessly sliced each persimmon into equal pieces, gliding through half the box in a matter of minutes. I picked up my own knife and attempted to imitate her, applying a hard bear claw-like grip on the side of the persimmon while sawing through its flesh. The knife shook in my hands as the persimmon slid back and forth across the chopping board, dangerously nearing my fingertips on multiple occasions. My mom watched on the side with worried eyes, her hands instinctively reaching out to mine to assist. Next to my mom’s neatly cut rows, my pieces were all over the place in size and thickness in the dehydrator rack. She smiled and continued her story.
I began to picture a small ten-year-old girl throwing her backpack down on the grass surrounding the persimmon trees. She would climb onto the tree trunk, plucking the largest and brightest persimmon from the branches, then nestling back down on a comfortable spot to read a novel. When she was tired, she used to rest the novel over her eyes and nap under the shade of the large persimmon leaves. There, she’s alone with the calming breezes of wind rustling through the leaves and cradled with the sugary scent of persimmons. That is, until she is woken up by the call of grandpa once again threatening her to get down from the tree. She carefully inched her way down, grabbed her backpack and ran into the house.
Suddenly, I understood why my mom planted the persimmon tree in the backyard when we first moved into the house. Years of watering, trimming, and fertilizing a single persimmon seed were fueled by the desire to taste the juiciest, sweetest persimmons every autumn, no doubt. But the roots of the now six-foot-tall tree extended much deeper than that. Thousands of miles away, in a small Chinese village, the memory of her childhood tree never left her heart. Cutting open the persimmons alongside her released a deeper understanding of how she and many other Chinese immigrants strived to find a way to connect the two halves of their lives. And now, years later, it was time to share the best gifts of our harvest as a way to extend our care and generosity to our friends and family. But the gift I received was the sweetest of all: the values she’s instilled in me through each persimmon have entwined with my very being, anchoring me to the community and weaving her story into mine.