Since it started in a deluge, I suppose it’s fitting that the gardening season end that way.

It seems like yesterday I was squelching about the yard trying to …. Wait, it was yesterday.

I am beginning to think that if we get much more, the state will break off and float across the big pond to merry olde England, where we’ll be right at home together in the drizzle.

That would make it a short trip for one accidental reader who was wondering about my horse chestnut.

Except where he’s from, it’s called a conker tree.

A bloke – don’t you just love slang – from England sent me an e-mail late last month.

Because of the ominous wonder of the World Wide Web, he found out about my horse chestnut tree. And he wrote:

I stumbled across your article when attempting to answer the question ‘what can we do with conkers?’ I live in England in a Victorian Lodge house with a very old conker tree. It’s at least as old as the house and was probably the main reason we bought the place. I really enjoyed your article but am wondering whether your twig made it into full conker treehood. There should be a follow-up.

Regards, Barry Nicola

Righto, Barry.

For those of you who might have missed my account of my acquisition of a horse chestnut twig, you should go riffle through your stacks of Bangor Daily News papers from January.

If you can’t find it, here’s a recap: In January, it was cold. Each day, I drove by the little twig I had planted in fall 2004, wondering if it would live. I had nursed the tree all through the summer before sticking it in the ground. Then I had to wait out the winter to see if my tree lived or died. I waxed poetic about the wonders of horse chestnuts and mentioned Colin “Mr. Darcy” Firth, Greece, England, the Turks, horses with coughs and medical stuff about veins.

It all made sense because it, after all, was a story about horse chestnut trees.

That was January.

And I haven’t told you a thing about it since.

Today is your lucky day.

So thanks to Barry from Britain for this bulletin about the status of my horse chestnut. But I warn you that you may require a hankie for this next part.

Dear Barry,

Thanks so much for writing. So you bought the house because of a tree? Bless you. It must be a most impressive specimen. I understand; there are trees, and then there are trees.

As to my twig, the one I planted in 2004 did not survive the Maine winter. However, all was not lost. My friend had another sprout up in her yard, and I brought it home with me in July.

I just went up to visit it today – all because of your e-mail – and it seems to have taken root with a vengeance. The leaves have all fallen off it now, but they stayed on for a while after I planted it. I am cautiously hopeful about the roots because when I gave it a tug, it wouldn’t budge. And the wee trunk still has a green sheen to it.

You’re right. I should do an update on it and a few other topics I’ve covered over the year. Probably for my October column.

I wish you great joy with your conker tree.

Janine

So horse chestnut No. 1 is compost. We may never know why it died.

Anyone who blames me might want to watch out when horse chestnut No. 2 is full grown in a few decades and loaded with seed pods, because I might go conker bonkers and challenge you to that little game the Royal Forestry Society of Great Britain claims is so much fun. The one where you drill a hole in your conker, thread a string through it and then hit each other with your conker weapon. I mean, you hit the conkers together, not ever your opponent.

No, that would be just wrong.

Of course, if we do break off and float to England this fall, maybe I can ask Barry if I can borrow a few of his conkers.

Practice, you know.

Janine Pineo’s e-mail address is jpineo@bangordailynews.net.