One of my elders in the nut growing community was a man named Parker Coble of Gettysburg. Over the course of his life he had accomplished many things: he was a track and field runner, a teacher, school administrator, football coach, father, husband, bow-hunter, and orchardist. In the years that I knew him he had been battling cancer, and I often found him riding around in his ATV picking up the nuts in his orchard one by one with a reacher tool. His spirits were bright – he was undaunted and courageous, in the sense of the original etymology of the word. From the Latin cor – “heart.” He had a lot of heart for sure. I know he especially loved sharing with younger folks such as those of my generation. He was always spinning yarns. About that elk in Montana. About the times he testified before Congress. The way the surgeons grafted his arteries like he would graft a nut tree. When he used to talk with Ike Eisenhower. The way he would run back and forth to school for miles before the days of busing. Picking American chestnuts as a kid. Securing a grant to start the English as a Second Language program in Adams county. The day Mr. Rogers came to profile him and his nut trees.

My heart is heavy. All across this country our black brothers and sisters experiencing oppression on the front lines are in deep grief and righteous anger. Those killed at the hands of police — George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery, Trayvon Martin, Eric Garner, Sandra Bland, Philando Castile, Freddy Gray — the list of names goes on and on. I’ve witnessed the plight of the black man in America for years, and have been aware of the issues, yet I often feel so powerless to do anything about the gross injustices in the system. If I were black instead of white, I would be dead already, or long ago in prison. Of this I am certain. As it is said, “No Justice, No Peace” and so these continuing injustices disturb my peace.

Uncovering the stories of giant trees of the past is an exercise in grief.

What more is there to say?