Pender

“hey, got a minute?... I can’t get the apple logo off the screen of my iPhone.”
“That’s because its backwards.  It’s okay, Pender...everyone does that.”

I cringe every time I hear that question out of Pender’s mouth.  At 53, his anger arrives in a flash, yet he insists on owning devices that frustrate him.  “Got a minute” is his code for: “I have been stumped by this electronic device; now I feel insecure about my age and stupid that I must ask for help.  In order to maintain my appearance of calm, you must make up an excuse that both exonerates me and places the blame squarely on the software developer.”

This is the guy who volunteered to take a picture for a couple wearing Packers jerseys on Navy Pier so he could toss their camera into Lake Michigan and tell them their team sucked.  He continually points out spelling errors, mocking people who fail to follow the “-end in friend” rule.  Waitresses pour drinks in his lap, and nursing mothers call him a pervert.  Our office cleaning lady forks the evil eye and spits at him; and he is no longer allowed inside the Brookfield Zoo after trying to fight a Kangaroo.  He can’t download an email attachment, is repeatedly confused by the three boxes in the upper right right corner of his screen, and often hits “reply all” with inappropriate comments about other people in his email chains.  He’s a real-life Michael Scott, minus the good intentions.

We shared an office for a few years with six other consultants looking to establish an legitimate mailing address.  Pender’s name was supposedly on the lease, and he appointed himself the de facto office manager for a group who neither needed nor wanted office management.  For a while no one minded, until someone brought in brownies on a random Wednesday.  

If you’re familiar with a gluten-free diet, you know that consuming wheat flour can land a person in the hospital.  But not consuming it can also land a person in the hospital, when the person not consuming it starts throwing insults and punches at the well-intentioned baker.  Pender’s anger led to six stitches above his left eye and a broken Keurig, and no question that he resents both his celiac and feeling excluded from the group.  Several consultants moved out, replaced by three new freelancers who looked puzzled upon receiving my warning to never feed the bear.  

Last week, the other tenants decided not to sign a new lease until they’d made a new arrangement with our property manager.  With all of the interpersonal struggles surrounding Pender, it may be tempting to think he is aware of the problem, but he is not.  He’s the product of a dysfunctional home, was never coached to play well with others, and continually plays the wounded victim role to his advantage.  Yet if you ask him, Pender genuinely believes all the blame can placed at another pair of feet, and that he is always in the clear.

Recently, a cop friend told me that in all the times he’s interviewed people after an accident, he’s never heard a person include themselves in their crash stories.  He hears “the other guy cut me off,” or “she just came out of nowhere,” or “they jumped out right in front of me,” but never hears someone admit their own part in being distracted.  For all the words which could be chosen, the most difficult remain the ones which provide a measure of grace to the other party involved.

The Poison Walnut

Along the edge of my Uncle Bob’s sprawling property stood an incredibly beautiful tree.  It was a Black Walnut, and towered over the shallow spring-fed pond that once watered dairy cows and served as a nautical landing pad for area mallards.  

For the first five years I lived there, I would forget about the tree entirely until the third week of August, when my friend Carl would throw one of its green fruits squarely between my shoulders, leaving a dark stain from its hull on whatever shirt he’d just ruined.  His annual first volley sparked a brief but filthy war for the first two weeks of each school year, usually ending only when his alcoholic father sobered up enough to wonder why his son’s new school clothes were peppered with walnut husks, then peppering him with fisticuffs until Carl promised to stop.

In addition to providing plentiful “kid ammo,” the walnut trees also provided a weird side effect--they produced a soil toxin called Juglone, which prevents all but the most tolerant species from surviving near the parent tree.  Staining a new sweatshirt was one thing, but poisoning the orchard was another--we always had enough sense to keep our skirmishes far from our family orchard.  Once the Juglone broke down in the soil, it stayed there for a long time, working through the soil layers until it broke down.  We’d seen the apple trees near the pond Walnut wither and die, and knew that spreading the rotten fruit further would only poison a larger area.  

After she saw its affecting the soil conditions on the nearest row of Heirloom trees, my Aunt Hester finally got pissed enough to cut it down.  She went at the tree with all five feet of her Filipino fury and my Uncle’s new Stihl chainsaw.  After 10 minutes, she dropped it into the pond, then had one of our hired hands wrap a tractor chain around it and drag it to the edge of the road, where she sold it off and made out pretty well. Very few trees fetch a better dollar for lumber than Walnut.

Quite a few people wondered how I’d react, thinking I would miss the tree that had stood on the property my late parents had turned into Quercitin Farms. Quite a few people were surprised that I turned out glad to see it go.  

There continue to be some great bass in the pond below, and I find it’s easier to cast into their favorite spots without that stupid tree getting in the way each day.  With the money that Hester made selling it off, she bought a pair of new four wheelers, which made getting around the farm both easier and more fun.  More than anything, I’m just glad not to have to smell it anymore, or step over it, or spend time working around it.  Lots of people thought it was a great tree, but they didn’t have to live with it everyday.  

A few fun facts about Juglone toxicity, and an odd social parallel:
Juglone poisons the soil and prevents certain species from thriving or surviving.  Some species are completely unaffected due to their genetic makeup.  Some species survive, but never thrive; still other species don’t flourish until the poison is completely gone.

For years after removing a Black Walnut, toxins in the soil persist, and new plants sensitive to their poison will not fare well.  This exclusionary mechanism allows walnut trees to colonize areas and prevent competition, by stifling other species' ability to breathe, survive, or flourish.

When a poisonous social or business attitude persists, it greatly affects the surrounding “ orchards ” and their culture.  For every strong personality who can survive a toxic environment, there is another who is consumed, unless extraordinary outside measures provide support.

The question remains:  for the organization who finds itself growing a Black Walnut, is it better to clean up their droppings each year to limit their poisonous impact, or is it better to cut the tree down, throw a chain around it, and sell it off for lumber?