Last summer I was walking down Jarrett and thinking, “Man, am I hungry” when I just so happened to spot an Italian Plum tree bursting at the seams with ripe fruit. I was delighted, as always, at this little coincidence and proceeded to grab a few fruits to keep me company.
Over the next few weeks, I found myself walking on the same street, raiding the tree for more and more fruit, since the supply seemed never ending, and the tree did overhang the sidewalk.
Finally, I started to feel a twinge of guilt. Maybe the tree’s owner had plans for all this fruit I was acquiring…
I decided to leave a note. A rather florid note, stating my name, where I lived and the fact that I had been rather shamelessly divesting this tree of its goodies. I asked that they please let me know if they would like me to stop, otherwise, I would continue with my occasional gleaning.
I taped the note to the front door of the house and walked home, thinking I would probably not hear anything about it. Twenty minutes later, I heard the doorbell ring. I went down to open the door, and much to my surprise, there was a man standing on my porch with a branch of plums in his hand and a smile on his face. He told me that my note was adorable, said I was welcome to as many plums as I could reach and invited me to come share the plum wine he was planning to make.