Russian olive trees

I am reading a book that encouraged me to think of something from my childhood and then fixate on it, trying to recall every detail about it. This was quite fun and I'd encourage you to try it.

The object I picked was the Russian olive trees that perimitered my childhood home. Here's the details I recalled, with a bit of time fixating.

There were over 60 trees covering 3 sides of our 1 acre in Reiles Acres, North Dakota. Weaved together, not knowing where one began and another ended, they created a solid natural fence and some reprieve from the prairie winds that howl unannounced. The leaves were small and shaped like an olive dish. The color was not a crisp green, but more a sage. One side of the leaf was lighter and slightly velvety. At some point in the year, the season is now lost to me, they bloomed with petite yellow flowers. I don't recall them having a fragrance. They did produce large round pea like "fruit" which we would collect in buckets as props for our imaginary play. The branches were home to large thorns. The kind that put rose thorns to shame. They were so big, I recall my dad and I getting one stuck in our foot, having first traveled through our tennis shoes. Some were a good 2 inches long, strong like a stick with a point like a needle. We would prune the trees, although I don't recall that we did with regularity. During one pruning session, the job went from casual to serious business, maybe they hadn't been done in a while? In the summer heat, long sleeves and pants were required for trying to wrangle the wild branches. My dad rented a wood chipper that year, there were so many limbs and they seemed to breed like rabbits. At the end of the day, we all were scratched up and not in a place to appreciate the beauty of the Russian olives. I don't think I ever really fully admired them. Part of my chores included mowing the lawn. My dad would use the John Deer green rider on the main grass and I was assigned the push mower, charged to trim between all the trees, including the 60+ thorned traps. Like a child not anticipating a kitten that no longer wants to be held, I was scratched up a lot.

As I look back on this reflection, I am stunned by the details that fell back to memory about trees I simply remembered only as Russian olives.