You ever stick a lifeless-looking stick into the ground and think, “Yep, this is gonna be a tree”? That’s the kind of optimism gardening gives you. I planted my first bare root tree years ago, and Josh swore I was being scammed. “You paid for that?” he said, holding the sad little twig like it had personally offended him. Now that twig is shading half the chicken coop, so guess who’s not laughing anymore.
Bare root trees always look a little tragic at first. They arrive in some kind of bag, all tangled roots and sawdust, and you start wondering if you made a mistake. But once they hit the dirt—oh, it’s magic. You just have to get the timing right. Early spring or late winter works best for us here in Homestead, before the real heat hits.
I like to soak the roots in a bucket of water for a couple of hours before planting. Ethan calls it a “root bath” and gives running commentary like a sports announcer. “And the roots are hydrated!” Honestly, it helps. They perk up a bit, and you feel less like you’re burying something and more like you’re setting it free.
The hole should be wide, not too deep, like a comfy bed for roots to stretch out. I mix in compost from our pile—the one that mysteriously gets banana peels but never apple cores. (Looking at you, Ethan.) Then I backfill gently, making sure those roots have contact with the soil. A good soak after planting helps settle it all in, mud up to my ankles and somehow in my hair. Every time.
That first week, I check on the tree way too often. Like a nervous new parent. Did it move? Is that a bud or am I hallucinating? But then one morning, you spot a tiny green leaf and it’s like the tree is whispering, “Relax, lady, I got this.”
Bare root planting is an act of faith, really. You plant something that looks like nothing—and wait for it to become everything. Kind of like motherhood, but with fewer snack requests and slightly less dirt on the couch.