There are no mangoes this summer, at least where I live.
They used to float above my yard, high in Mr. Inefuku’s neighboring Haden mango tree. During the warm months of June and July, they would grow fat on his giant tree, whose boughs reached over the leaning redwood fence that divided our backyards. The mangoes would fall into my yard, crashing through leaves and landing with a thump just about every day.
The tree was a factory, steadily churning out succulent fruit, enough for everybody and then some. I was always quick to collect them so they wouldn’t be eaten by birds. At night, after dinner, I usually cut and placed them into sandwich bags, then stashed them in my carport freezer.
The sweet bounty of summer would last a year, turning up in pies, ice cream and smoothies.
But the branches had grown too large for the tree, which was old and gnarled like some Tolkien forest character. For several weeks this winter, Mr. Inefuku climbed a precarious ladder and wielded his electric chain saw like a sculptor.
Mrs. G. and I would hear him during dinner, even as night fell. We knew the whirring meant an end to our mango daze.
In Hawaii, neighbors regularly bond over shared fruit, and this was how we met Mr. Inefuku and his wife, who first gave us mangoes over the fence. Sometimes they would just fill a Safeway bag and hang it from one of the weathered slats.
Mr. Inefuku’s mangoes were the best fruit in our yard. Well, the only fruit. Although I’m growing papayas and bananas, largely as an experiment, growing fruit trees or vegetables in a garden has never been a hobby I pursued.
The papaya tree, 15 feet tall and laden with fruit that is still green and untasted, was a lark. The seeds came from breakfast one morning, and I just threw them in a planter box to see what would happen. The banana stalks, which have yet to bear fruit, came from a neighbor I surf with.
There was no reason to become an amateur farmer, though. For 20 years now Mrs. G. and I have bought produce at the farmers market every Saturday: the lettuce, tomatoes, corn, onions and potatoes from farmers Mrs. G. has known since high school, our cucumbers from a woman who calls Mrs. G. “Sweetie” and our papayas from the woman’s husband, who always says, “Thank you, Auntie” when Mrs. G. pays him. (If there’s change, I get it for bus fare.)
We never bought mangoes, though. I’m not convinced anyone does. Mangoes are the gift of summer. When I was growing up, my father would bring home large bags, all gifts from people he knew. If there were too many, we passed the surplus to friends.
So we counted on our neighbor’s tree to deliver. We’d watch for blossoms early in the year, fret over windy days that blew them away and lick our lips as fruit went from green to yellow and red. I guess we took it for granted.
But there’s hope.
The other night, after dinner on the patio and a few hands of gin with Mrs. G., I looked over at Mr. Inefuku’s tree and saw something nearly as wonderful as mangoes: new branches, lush with leaves and reaching toward my backyard.
Reach Mike Gordon at 529-4803 or email mgordon@staradvertiser.com.
