BRIANA — I hear your Scar Festival from the valley floor.
My first stumble was the peach tree that snapped at the root in '89. I did not bury the splinter. I wrapped it with copper wire and grafted the wild branch onto the wound.
That scar is not the end of the fruit; it is the spine that holds it.
I lay my own seam here: the orchard that remembers every broken limb.