Persimmon in the middle
On rocky hillside where I live are a half dozen wild American persimmon trees. Some years they have fruit, some years they have tent caterpillars. This year, the two oldest are bearing fruit. Twelve years ago, I fenced in approximately 2124 square feet of that hillside for a garden space which turned out to be the shape of a wobbly circle with the northeast triangle missing.
Exactly in the center of that circle is a persimmon root that will not stop being alive. It lies at the corner of a bed I imposed on the hillside, and it sends up shoots into the pathway because it is not done yet. For twelve years, I have trimmed the shoots as part of claiming my garden space. So on path-clear day, grass, weeds, persimmon shoots – everything gets snipped. All the while the persimmon root quietly persists.
Smart folks who go to workshops take home handouts, some of which might inform the public at large that wild persimmons of northern Arkansas are local representatives of the American persimmon, or Diospyros virginiana. Diospyros means “food of the gods,” so pay attention. They are native along most of the east coast and across the South to Texas and the eastern edge of the Great Plains. Everybody knows that.
Europe and Central America have their varieties, and Asian persimmons, especially Japanese varieties, have been introduced to the Unites States. The American persimmons in my back yard are close relatives of African ebony, so, “Hello, Mozambique!”
Persimmon trees begin bearing fruit this time of year. The fruit are nature’s role model for astringency and bitterness until a few cold nights sweeten them up like we like. On my hillside, they get as big as a golf ball. I’ve seen well-established trees in northern California with at least tennis ball sized fruit. Apparently, Wilson Park in Fayetteville boasts a specimen almost 70-feet tall with a trunk circumference of 64 inches. That means I could wrap myself around it, but just barely. But I don’t want to.
Two of the persimmon trees where I live are twelve years old. One bears more fruit than the other, but both produce fruit. Literature observes that usually persimmon trees are either male or female with the female bearing happy little persimmons. My 12-year-olds are examples of self-fruitful trees or else there is a mature male nearby I don’t know about, but we are in the woods.
Until they ripen, the fruit are so astringent as to be inedible. Dark splotches appear on the skin of the fruit as they mature, but the tasty, mushy part inside is unaffected. A frost or two will change the chemistry of the pulp, and suddenly, they’re sweet and delicious! The fruit and leaves can be used medicinally if you know what you’re doing, and the wood is valued for being close-grained and strong, and it gets darker as it ages. Early last century, lots of persimmon wood became golf club heads.
A tea made from the leaves is used commonly in Chinese medicine to prevent melanoma, regulate metabolism and cleanse the circulatory system. In A Field Guide to Medicinal Plants, Eastern and Central North America, it states the bark tea was once used as a folk remedy for a litany of internal complaints.
With all this good news, I decided to reconsider the persimmon tree root in the garden. It has been patient with me since I tried to claim a space. It has again sprouted a main “trunk” and a few suckers at the base. The trunk is already four feet tall, so now’s the time. I’ll lop off the suckers, sing it a song, and we’ll see how tall it gets in a few years. It will eventually be a shade-maker where the asparagus grows, but by then I might have a new asparagus bed.
Most of the plants in my garden will be adversely affected by frosts, so I’m okay waiting till Thanksgiving for this year’s persimmon harvest.