The orchard

The orchard, named with the generic German for “fruit tree”, appropriately belongs to a German schoolteacher friend who is a botanical hobbyist. For some years we’ve had free rein of the dropped apples that cannot be used for cider. All we have to do it get them.

One year the Dreamer and I did the gathering alone. Another year the Dragon joined the husband and me, in a cold wet rainstorm, and we gathered. One year it was just I and Grand 2, a toddler who sat in her stroller watching me with big eyes. Last year we hit an unseasonably warm September day, complete with yellow jackets, and the Dreamer’s two little girls, Grands 2 & 3, were not impressed. Today dawned with total autumn clarity and the promise of midday warmth.

The Driver alone has never done the orchard. This year she asked that we wait till she arrived from the other side of the world. We arrive in three minivans: one grandmother, the Dreamer and Grands 2&3, her sister-in-law with little cousins, the Driver with Grand 4, and a random Chinese college student, friend to the Driver and studying nearby.

We opt to only send one van, laden with empty boxes, through the mudslide beside the barn that leads to the orchard, walking the rest of the crew with stroller, car seat, and a large red wagon. Ah, the bagay of little people.

Arriving in the sunny rows we scout the land for trees with apples still hanging. Since the orchard is officially closed for the season, we can pick as well as gather drops.

We spread out with boxes and begin the tedious work of gathering, the high grass wet with lingering frost. Over the years I’ve learned to find a tree with a few apples left on it and look down. Below there may be fifty pristine apples not yet touched by the deer, the squirrels.

Grand 2 and her younger cousin discover slugs and have a wonderful time smearing them into wet apples. Grand 3, walking confidently this year, attempts to keep pace with each adult in turn, managing to navigate the tall grass quite well by self, thank you. Young cousin, not quite as steady, takes several face falls before he gets the knack. Grand 4 lies on his back watching the cloudless blue of a Michigan sky – a blue his side of the world doesn’t produce. The youngest little cousin, less than two months, is oblivious. The Chinese student is reveling in Americana that has previously only existed in books.

After weeks filled with people, I find the empty orchard pure mind therapy.

The sun slowly warms us and coats are left in the van, then fleeces and sweaters. The boxes begin to fill with gold, red, maroon, striated, and green. We take turns hauling the boxes back to ground zero with the red wagon. The snack bag gets raided for granola bars. One little hand gets nipped in the van door with much howling.

After noon, the sun still high overhead, we load the last of many boxes into the van and haul out to the other cars left by the barn. The orchard has been conquered again and the smell of apples and autumn and crisp air wafts over us all the way home, past farms and through golden woods.

Tomorrow we reassemble and tackle the day-long applesauce making tradition. Home is a good place as October fades into oblivion.