My Dad the Upo Whisperer

In the spring, Dad would crack open the huge, dried upo, extricate its seeds, and plant them in his narrow plot of dirt. He would till the soil first, mixing in some smelly manure as fertilizer, then plant his seeds a few inches apart in a single row. Every day he would water his seeds and shoo away the squirrels, until little seedlings sprouted. While he waited for the seedlings to get bigger, my dad would tend to the trellis and latticework that would eventually support the vines. He would use rope to repair spots that were worn from the winter’s snow and ice. Sometimes he improvised using objects he’d found in the house. Once I saw him use an old shoelace of mine, and I was secretly happy it would become part of his upo garden. 

A few weeks ago, my parents sold their old house. Now they’re living in a spacious condominium in New Jersey. Dad’s upo garden is no more. It’s become part of Brooklyn lore, Dad’s story being entitled “That Filipino Man Who Grew Green Baseball Bats in a Concrete Garden.” Never again will my dad toil in his tiny bit of dirt during the early days of spring, or take a mid-day siesta sitting under the canopy of vines during the summer. But my father did save that one huge upo from his last year’s harvest. He bestowed his upo legacy upon my husband, who always appreciated Dad’s green thumb. And this spring, with the help of the upo whisperer, my husband and I will have our neighbors talking…