A few years ago, we planted three Northern Pecan trees. They were hardly more than sticks and are still skinny saplings. One died right away but the other two are doing just fine though not yet beyond the danger posed by hungry deer. I’m not sure if I’ll ever see a single pecan from them. But I planted them with the hope that I’d get to eat at least one nut from them. Still, it’s comforting to think that my kids and/or grandkids might one day have fresh pecans and silently thank Gramma and I for planting those trees. It is much like writing books and hoping that they will live on long after you’re gone. Maybe one of them will be picked up at a used book store or library sale and someone will read it and think about whoever wrote that book.
