Apples U-Pick

Memories linger within us. Like seeds buried deep. They lie dormant, way in the back of our minds, until unexpectedly set in motion. Perhaps it’s a smell, a place, a forgotten sight, or even just hearing a certain sound and they are summoned back to life.

For me, this reawaking happens in early September, as the trees start showing their autumn colors, the cool breezes chill my skin and the neighborhood kids head back to school. It also happens whenever we pass the historical Orchards, not far from our home, and I see a line of cars waiting for their turn, I remember.

As a teenager, almost every Sunday, our family of eight piled into our beige, faux-wood paneled, Oldsmobile station wagon and headed from the suburbs to our grandparents’ home in the countryside.

To me, these trips felt like an obligation, not a choice. Every boring hour-long ride I sat looking out the side window, with my head resting on my hand, wishing I was back home, talking about boys on the phone or hanging out at my best friend’s house, talking about boys. My repeated, whining attempts to be left home alone, were always denied.

Grandpa’s home was surrounded by over thirty, fully matured apple trees. They stood in flawlessly straight rows, standing tall, mighty and motionless against nature’s whims. The branches were thick, white, and dotted with black scabs. The orchard was mostly the MacIntosh variety, with a smattering of Red Delicious, and two steadfast Granny Smiths. The trees reminded me of soldiers standing at attention with their arms reaching for the sun.

Just after Labor Day, grandpa dragged his handmade black wooden sign up to the road, sliding silvery legs into sturdy metal tubes already hammered into the ground. The sign, taller than Grandpa bore handwritten, on both sides, white letters that read:

Apples

U-Pick

This transformed our grandparents’ quiet and calm orchard into a lively, bustling house party. From early morning, until dusk, all kinds of vehicles arrived and exited, one after another all carrying excited, apple-eating fans. Some cars would pull in slowly, as if they were still deciding whether or not to stop. Others came with intent, pulling in quickly, parking in the first open spot, their passengers jumping out eagerly and anxious to get started. Some visitors were multi-generational families, where the grandparents’ kept eyes on the children, while the parents did the picking. Some were young couples, walking hand in hand. And then there were single men, who looked like they were on a mission, probably sent by their wives. The VW bugs that looked like clown cars when a dozen people got out. And of course, inevitably assorted family members came for free apples.

It was organized chaos.

My two older siblings and I became the worker bees, buzzing in all directions. We were dashing from the front of the house to the orchard and everywhere in-between. We guided customers, supplied them with cloth bags, wooden bushel baskets, and step ladders. When customers were finished, we gingerly moved freshly picked apples from the bins to paper bags, trained to avoid bruising. We ran the money inside and handed it off to our grandmother, the cashier. It was as if grandpa was the stage director and we were his trusty stagehands.

When hunger struck, I snuck away in search of my favorite and perfectly perfect Macintosh Apple. I would wander, looking for the flawless red and green combination. Once selected and as instructed, I wiped off the white pesticide film, before taking a bite. The first loud snap as my teeth effortlessly passed through the crisp, smooth, paper-thin skin, followed by the sharp blast of tartness as the firm, fresh pulp slid into my mouth making my lips smack and curl. And as the explosion of juice overflowed from my lips, the liquid trickled down the sides of my chin, creating a sticky river, my shirt sleeve caught the dribble. These firm, newly picked apples tasted full of sunshine.

I took another bite and swiped another wipe as I skipped back to the crowd.

When the sun started to set and the final customer pulled out, we shut the garage doors and headed inside. Dinner was our reward. Our mother and grandmother had been cooking all day. The smells filled the air with familiar and comforting aromas. The tantalizing whiffs of homemade pasta and meatballs mixed with cinnamon, nutmeg and sugary, sweet cooked apples, flooded our senses. We washed up, sat down and began to pass the many heaping platters. We loaded our plates and our stomachs, as we all told stories about the day.

My brother shared, “I saw kids throwing freshly picked apples, trying to hit their basket, while the parents watched.” He ended with, “I guess they don’t know they’re going to have bruises on all their fruit.” Then, we all shook our heads. My sister’s told us, “There was one group that was never satisfied with the trees they were assigned and spent more time moving then picking.” I shared in awe, “There was one family who bought six bushels.” We made guesses about what they would do with so many apples. My mom guessed, “Maybe they were going to sell them or maybe they were buying for their friends.” We listened, while filling our mouths. Grandpa shared, “My cousins took a bushel and said they would be back next week for more.” Grandma huffed. We finished by gobbling up the fresh apple pie, served a la mode. We slowly loaded our tired, stuffed bodies into our wagon for home.

Our cruiser rolled out of the empty, dark driveway, I was a little sad to leave, but anxious to get home. I knew we had the same boring hour-long ride, only now dark, so there would be even less to see. With my head again resting on my hand, I looked out as we pulled away and the trees had vanished, lost in the darkness. I sat and wondered; will it be too late to call my friends when I get home.

Youth slips away like apples falling from a tree, neither can be put back. They linger in the shadows, stored away in a dark place, until those crisp fall days return and I pass the orchard again. Then my treasured memories sparkle, like the sunshine taste of a just picked apple.