An Origin Story

 A long, long time ago, a farm stood stoutly in a valley. There were apple trees (Malus spp.) some growing deliberately and others were with little forethought for their future. 

A long time ago, the farmers died or grew incapable of maintaining the homestead. The trees suffered some, though their roots were strong enough to weather the years of neglect. The farm changed with age but, just as the chicken coop collapsed and the barn and the house began to fall apart, the children returned to help. 

The last living farmer reluctantly gave in to the demands of "no more chores" forever and permitted the barn to become a garage and the coop into further decay. Even the old farmhouse, once bought from a Sears catalog, underwent renovation, with the root cellar becoming a "finished basement."

It was around this time that the last apple tree (Malus coronaria), was felled. 

A time ago, one of the farmer's descendants began caring for some of the trees again. Though there may not have been any apple trees (Malus spp.), there were quite a few maples (Acer spp.) whose growth characteristics and vigor provided excellent learning templates.

My journey with felling trees began as a teenager, initially to remove the dead and dying ones on the farm. I continued in this maintenance role for nearly 15 years before taking a cozy office job temporarily. However, my passion for trees led me back to the field, where I added almost 5 years of installation and soil experience, building an extensive library of knowledge along the way to complement the expansive physical library currently occupying the majority of my jeep.

I'm that farmer's descendant and even though I have a lifetime's worth of experience working with trees and after years of extensive work and study on soil and growing practices (specifically trees), I feel like I still know very little. 

The real reason I picked up a lot of extra books over the last few years is short and has the most beautiful brown puppy dog eyes that I have ever seen. Her name is the most beautiful melody. She is fire and passion and an earnest desire to improve herself and everyone around her. She is the type of woman capable of moving mountains, especially for that which she loves. 

She commented on my mustache and I assumed it was going to be some dumb joke or something else dumb, but instead it was me that was dumbfounded. Her enthusiasm and dedication to learning, even in 30-second increments on advertisement-riddled devices, astound me.

From the moment our eyes met, I knew she was genuine. In an age where eyes were all we got for a while, it became important to read them better. Hers said all I ever wanted. What's truly unique in a world full of uniqueness is when two snowflakes can join their outstretched arms together. Perhaps that union will become hail and ruin someone's garden party. Or maybe the two will melt together and fall into obscurity down a sewer. We had to test fate.

She possessed an insatiable curiosity for life, though stymied at times. She was intelligent, obviously. Her passions were her interests and she was infectious with them. She caught me off guard and unaware and soon I was falling harder than any tree ever could.

She is funny, with the world's best laugh: genuine, like everything she does. Pure, in spite of the world's incurable desire to bring her down. Including, of course, Lyme disease. Which is, to me, the world's worst disease because it comes from the woods which is where I often work (urban or otherwise can have ticks). It is a cruel twist of fate that those who care the most are often those hurt the most. We shared interests and issues and I followed her to the ends of the earth, or close enough. 20 miles or 2000 would not have made a difference, I'd never been so enamored.

When I met her, I was a well educated and well read stoner living in a tent in the old barn. Yes, I had erected a tent inside the current garage. Surprisingly, she didn't seem too bothered by my eccentric living situation. I took that as a sign from fate that this might be the one for me, capable of looking past the superficial and finding the beauty in the beast. Though I consider myself handsome enough, I couldn't overcome the stigma of homelessness adjacency.

Aside from a kind of work-hobby with trees, I was only really interested in annual woody plants. Single-handedly, this woman helped me pull myself up from cohabitation of an old barn with at least 1 feral cat to the "tree guy" pushing to get a nursery started. 

The only reason any of this is possible is because this woman also motivated me to start a farm. We learned about land management using livestock and transformed a different farm that was basically just some woods with birds and a couple horses running around into a halfway functioning farm that successfully cultivated and sold eggs, jam, herbs, flowers, pork, and chicken.

We wanted to keep building this homesteader's paradise, but circumstances and fate had different plans. I don't know where this road will lead, but I can't stop now; it would be disingenuous to us both.

Bubba's nursery is named after a woman that I loved, my grandmother (deceased). It is located on the original farm of one of my great-great aunts but it was always to me, my great-grandmother Nan's (deceased) home, whom I also loved. Often times my own home growing up as well. The reason I'm starting it now is because of another woman that I love, though I am not with her now my love for her will always be reflected in this endeavor. 

While I don't have a formal mission statement, I believe the drive and will to continue my life as a farmer, grower, and cultivator are still within me, all thanks to the love and inspiration of these extraordinary women. Though the nursery may not always be on this farm, I will make it happen, embracing the principles of permaculture and love. After all, what's more permanent than a properly cared-for tree? It will certainly outlive me and may provide shade and fruit for generations.

So, in summary of my origin story: I once lived in a barn, until I found my true counterpart, and together, we worked tirelessly to build a thriving farm, only to see it slip away because of carelessness. Now, if I were a tree, I feel like a storm has hit me, leaving my heartwood exposed because I wasn't properly pruned.

But I won't give up. I'll use everything I can to continue this journey, gardening and nurturing trees, all in honor of the women I love.