This post reminded me of a story from my own family.
We moved to the house my parents still live in back in the summer of 1979. Sometime that summer, my oldest sister finished eating a peach, and buried the pit in the back yard.
My hometown is not known for its agriculture. The soil is sandy, thin, and acidic. We grow cranberries, pine trees, and weeds. I tried to grow a garden several summers running, and, even with a lovely compost heap to fertilize it, never got anything worth harvesting. Things did not grow in our back yard, unless they were sharp and thorny, or just plain stubborn.
So imagine my father’s surprise, as he’s cleaning up the yard after a hurricane in 1991, to find this fuzzy pink ball lying on the ground. And more of them hanging overhead. That peach pit, out of an ordinary supermarket peach, had sprouted, grown, blossomed, and borne fruit. Took it 12 years, but there it was, growing and fruiting in a tangle of brambles and pine trees.
My parents don’t bother harvesting the peaches nowadays. They tell me it’s far more entertaining, watching squirrels try to run carrying one. Or seeing the results after the fruit ferments, and the backyard wildlife gets soused.