September of 2001 was cause for celebration. The arbequina olive trees had arrived at their new home in Central Texas. Although, he’s a saint best known for granting fertility to women, a quick prayer was offered to St. Gerard to help the trees grow and bear fruit. Now, twenty years later the strong branches that once provided cool shade from the blistering Texas sun, have become denuded, charred and twisted. The skinny arms of the once bountiful trees stick up in the air as if they’re gripped by rigor mortis.
Arbequinas in Austin
I purchased the arbequinas from a man by the name of Osama, not the one who lived in a cave. This Osama grew olives on a ranch near Elmendorf, Texas. He told me, “Arbequinas are grown in the Middle East, so they should do quite well in this warm climate.” Osama was right. The leafy immigrants grew and grew until they blocked out the sun. Like Jolly Green Giants with arms stretching for the clouds, nothing could put a stop to their growth. St. Gerard had heard our prayers. Although the trees were alien to Texas, like anyone who calls the Lone Star State home, they sunk their roots deep and fit right in. We have alkaline soil, long, hot summers and a cold, not frigid winters. Sustained cold below 15 degrees is fatal to olive trees, but would that ever happen in Austin, Texas? Not a chance.
Hypothermia occurs when a person, without the proper clothing, is exposed for long periods of time to freezing temperatures. The same goes for vegetation. During the Big Freeze of 2021, we had 6 days of below 32 degrees, coupled with 48 straight hours of the thermometer bottoming-out at a chilly 10 degrees Fahrenheit. It was the coldest stretch of weather ever recorded in Austin. Who thought it would ever get that cold? Certainly not me, the TV weather man or Osama.
When the Big Freeze released its icy grip there was no life left in the arbequina trees. Without the thick insulation of winterized tree bark, nothing could be done except cut them down. But what to do with the remains? Cremation or composting? Burn the dead wood into ashes, or use it to encourage new growth? We decided on the latter.
The first step in the regenerative process is to grind up the trees with a diesel-powered wood-chipper that can pulverize a 12-inch diameter log or a man’s arm in seconds. Once the trees have been reduced to a pile of wood chips it’s time to make the Primordial Soup.
Ingredients: 20 cubic yards of finely-ground wood chips, 12 yards of sandy loam, 6 yards of aged organic horse manure, 40 #’s of powdered lime and 20 gals. of liquid dextrose. While thoroughly mixing all the ingredients with a frontend loader, for fruitiness and fluffiness, throw in water lettuce and duck weed harvested from the pond. Once the Primordial Soup has been sufficiently mixed, keep it well-watered and in the direct sunlight. Stir often.
As the pile slowly deteriorates into organic compost a sudden jolt of extreme heat will be needed to hasten the process of decomposition and encourage bacterial growth. A sure-fire solution is to mount an aluminum flag pole on top of the decomposing mound, then hold your mouth just right and pray that a bolt of lightning will make a connection with the metal rod.
Depending on the amount of rainfall, sunlight and time spent stirring the pile, it will take 3 to 4 years for the Primordial Soup to finish cooking. You can tell it’s done when the smell is gone. All the new energized soil will be black and crumbly. The organic compost will be used to make the beds where new sprigs of life are to be planted. Will it be arbequinas, again? I may be old, but I’m not stupid. No more foreigners will be given room to roam and grow, then take a dive in the 20th round. It will be merlot grapevines, guaranteed hardy enough to stand the extreme heat of Central Texas along with freezing cold. Trading olive oil for wine isn’t such a bad idea anyway.
On this Memorial Day a suitable tombstone will be erected to celebrate the arbequina trees abundant past, and honor their untimely passing. It will be one lone tree, stripped of its bark, then sanded to a satin finish. Once the sentinel is mounted on a six-foot tall cinderblock base in the front yard, it will be epoxied in amber, a long-lasting monument to all immigrants not equipped to survive the weather in Texas.