Raymond the Jade Tree started out as we all do—small. My dad, Ray J. Fritz, plopped a single jade leaf (if that’s what they’re called) into the dirt somewhere around 55 years ago. About 30 years ago he gave it to me, and that’s when Raymond (the tree) got messed up. I figured, well, a jade grows slowly, and the next thing I knew 9 years had sailed by, and Raymond had developed three massive arms (maybe trunks in plant speak). Rather than complain about his odd reach, I decided to take pride in what nature will do to thwart human laziness: grow big and gangly.
Over time Raymond got re-potted when he just grew too big, or, more recently (as in 3 years ago), too sick to go on in his current form. He needed to be pruned, meaning I literally cut off 15 pounds of diseased branches, even as I was determined to keep his three huge arm-trunks intact.
One thing I’ve noticed about Raymond over the years is he’s something of a bellwether for my family. When things are good, Raymond thrives; when things aren’t good, neither is he. The ultimate crisis Raymond faced occurred the summer of 2012, a few months after my beloved Cavalier King Charles spaniel, Murphy, died of cancer. I was depressed, grieving, and not paying attention, and Raymond got over-watered and one entire side was covered in mold before I noticed. Then, of course, I panicked. Raymond was one of the few things I had from my dad, who died in 1994, and I didn’t want to lose him. Plus I considered myself to be something of a green thumb, and I was so not proving my case. Raymond had to live. I just had to find the people who could make that happen.
It was Dolly Vinal, a West Seattle professional gardening expert, who clued me into the mold, and went so far as to visit West Seattle Nursery and find a pot she thought would work better than the one he was in (the ceramic glaze was holding water, not good if you’re a jade tree). Then the nursery’s staff jumped into the breach, arriving with pot, soil, know-how, and sheer guts, determined to help save Raymond (and brave enough to admit that might not be possible). After all, there may be plenty of old jade trees in pots around the country, but there’s only one Raymond in Seattle (or anywhere, except for the scads of Raymond cuttings, called Ray-lets, bursting out of office buildings and homes all over the Northwest).
As you’ll see from the photos, it was quite the job, benignly supervised by Grace the Cat.
Three years later, Raymond is thriving (and, due to my panic, doomed to live forever in our condo, since I bought a pot too large to fit through the door straight up!).
A couple of days ago my neighbor and I were shopping for her Christmas tree at the nursery when we ran into the woman who spearheaded Raymond’s recovery—Marcia, the nursery manager. I couldn’t believe she remembered Raymond, and I think she couldn’t believe that I thought anyone could forget him. I realized I’d never let them know how Raymond was doing, so here it is.
Our encounter reminded me that I never got around to writing this article. It also reminded me that we worry a lot about the state of the world, about neighbors not caring about each other, about ending up somewhere unpleasant in a handbasket, whatever that means. But the truth is, people care. They’ll go out of their way to help just because helping makes the world a better place, if only in our own neighborhoods. That’s a start. A pretty big one, actually.
I am grateful for Raymond, for the friends and nursery who cheerfully did something we weren’t sure could happen: Raymond lives!
©2015 Robyn M Fritz