Well, I Never…
One day, I decided I would grow a mango tree in my backyard in the eastern United States. That would a tropical plant residing in a temperate deciduous forest, prone to drastic fluctuations in temperature and precipitation. It would take at least five to eight years until it finally bore fruit, and even then they might be sour and inedible. In terms of commitment, I would have to exercise the utmost caution in watering it sufficiently, exposing it to adequate sunlight, and maintaining an optimal temperature for growth. That was something seven-year-old Anusha was obviously incapable of doing. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t try.
Why did I come up with this ingenious endeavor? Perhaps it was because of my profound desire to see something grow or to cultivate a new hobby. It could also have been because of a T.V. show I had watched at the time, in which the protagonist had painstakingly cared for a watermelon plant until it finally bore fruit. I saw that final sense of victory and accomplishment in the animated character’s eyes and wanted it for myself. Yes, I would see that I would grow a glorious mango tree just behind our house, and everyone would come to see it. Everyone would soon appreciate the fruits of my labors!
I began my quest by first devouring the sweetest mango I could find, messily eating its sweet, juicy flesh until I was left with nothing but the large seed. Having decided that this would be the seed that would one day grow into a magnificent tree, I reverently held it in my hands. I admired its light golden hue, its slightly fuzzy texture, and its sweet aroma.
Not one to unceremoniously stick it into the ground, I washed the slimy seed in warm, running water to clean any of the remaining fruit off of it. Thinking that my little seed would then be wet and cold, I dried it with a little towel, taking care that I wasn’t being too rough. After all, it was only a baby! or that’s what I said when my father raised a questioning eyebrow at me.
You’d think I would’ve stopped there and just planted it then, right? I mean how much more could I have done with a mango seed? Unsurprisingly, I didn’t. Finding that the seed’s little hairs were much too long and unkempt, I took it upon myself to give it a little trim. And with my little purple safety scissors and a plastic comb, I did just that.
Several minutes later, I held what I perceived to be the handsomest little mango seed in the world in my hands.
Still beaming, I announced, “I will name you Harry! Harry the hairy mango seed.”
Pleased with my cleverness, I looked out the window to see that it was beginning to grow dark outside.
“Oh, I can’t plant you at night! It’s far too dark and cold! We should wait until the morning. Until then you should get some rest,” I affectionately told the seed.
Finding an empty shoe box, I stuffed it with cotton before finally placing Harry inside.
“There you are, nice and comfy. Good night, Harry!” I yelled as tromped upstairs.
Now, now, before you get too worried about me having a full conversation with a mango seed, please remember that I was seven-years-old at the time, highly imaginative, and very altruistic. Having established a great personal attachment to the seed, will Anusha’s plans to grow a full mango tree succeed? Will she finally taste the fruit of her labors or be left staring at the barren soil of broken dreams? Find out all this and more on tomorrow’s post!