I gently eased the root ball of the olive tree into the sandy soil. The surrounding hole had been partially filed with a mix of peat moss, top soil and composted cow manure. I had dug deep to allow the tree’s roots to reach and probe for the moisture it would need to set and grow. Florida’s soils are hardly nutrient rich but olives are not terribly demanding. My hands were stained a licorice tint from the tossing and blending of the soil additives. After the lifting and tumbling, I eased the roots from the compacted ball and spread them before covering the plant with a mulch that would help keep the soil cool and prevent the hot sun from pulling the moisture from beneath the weedy surface. Towering above while I worked were two very mature mango trees which appeared to be setting their buds for another bumper harvest. Hundreds of mangos to be donated and given away. At night I can usually hear the falling fruits thud against the root dense ground. People often stop their cars to pick the dropped fruit which oddly enough I never developed a liking for. Not so the pineapple plants four of which are already busy developing their fruit. Small structures of pointed spikey leaves that will grow thick and dense as they mature into that impressive fruit with its prickly, green hued skin and grouping of five or so long leaves standing at the top like unkept hair. I usually leave the fruit until the skin ripens to a tell tale shade of gold and its sweetness can be smelled from a distance. The homeless sometimes wait until just before harvest before cutting the fruit away with jackknives but I don’t mind the enforced sharing. Simply put I have and they don’t. The lemon tree is also setting buds for fruiting after the fall of its deliciously scented flowers, a long time favorite of mine. There will be a lot of lemons. The loquats are nearly done with their season. The small yellow globes often picked by passersby that know what they are as they walk beneath the trees. Jasmine vines have begun to flower, adding their sweet scent to the night air. Every other day I check on the olive tree to make certain the soil has not dried out. I’m estimating that the one I put into the ground may be two years old. The trees don’t produce any fruit until before they are three, ‘ll be waiting. To think that the olives can be pressed for oil and soap, the fruit can be eaten and the deadfall branches burned to add fragrance to cooked meat and fish. The tree is a link to my Mediterranean heritage. I remembered walking beneath olive trees in Provence, Greece and Sicily. Most olives live for approximately 500 years but there are reports that a few have lived for three times that long. The oldest ones that I have seen are ragged looking, scarred and often misshapen. Like ancient people, they are venerable but often not pretty to look at. The trees and people deserve respect for having survived through so much for so long. Tumult and drought, the ravages of time, weather and adversity. The people may be barren but the olive goes on producing. To plant an olive is to trust that there will be a future, that this being will endure and continue to provide shade, fruits and shelter for living things long after I am gone. It is a living hope and trust.