Leading into the year my marriage fell apart, my father was dying, and my own head quietly came unscrewed, I did what any sensible man would do. I bought fruit trees. A lot of them.
It started with a banana tree. A friend mentioned he’d driven forty minutes to buy one for his kid, and something in me locked onto it like a tractor beam. Within days I was standing in a blue shack on a corner lot in rural Florida, haggling with a chain-smoking tree guru holding his blind cat, over a grapefruit tree I could not afford, for a backyard that did not need it. Over the…
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