Value laden

The garage takes on the look and smell of an apple barn. Rows of boxes filled with a plethora of color and shape. Bright Ida Reds alongside burgundy Spies. Green blushed Macs rub up against Goldens. Dark ruby Jonathans sit with striated Galas.

The applesauce “machine” begins in the barn. One worker loads two tubs of apples, taking a selection from all the varieties and bringing them to the kitchen. There they are double washed and piled high. The next workers grab washed apples, position them on the cutting board, and in one motion split them into seven pieces with an apple cutter. The pieces are tossed into four large pots on the stove and boiled.

When soft, the pieces are processed through an ancient apple mill that spits applesauce out one end and peels, stems, and seeds out another side. Finally the sauce is bagged and stacked in the freezer.

The work flows without stoppage, every woman taking turns at each job. The men have fled. Two took their guns to the shooting range, the third is off to take his pilot re-certs, and the eldest, after giving some very male engineering advice on methodology, has retreated to points outside and upstairs.

The children wander in and out of the process. Scorning political correctness of safety, we allow them to help carry, wash, and cut cold apples, as well as turn the apple mill of hot sauce. They are little and don’t stay long at any job, but in time their now childish attempts will yield genuine results. The littlest babes hang out in various seats, or slung on their mom’s backs.

Lunchtime finds the crew gathered at the round table. The little ones major on applesauce, bowl after bowl. The fresh batch passes the taste test. Grand #2 decides sharp cheddar is great sprinkled on top. Her maternal great grandmother would be delighted.

As the day wanes, weariness sets in. This is hard work. Hands, arms, feet, and backs are tired.

Conversation turns to the value of the process. Taken in pure monetary terms, the apples were free, but time is not. These women, all Masters in their fields, can earn real money in real time. It would be cheaper to buy applesauce.

This, however, is not about money. It is the process itself that is value laden. The old apple mill is from the great-grandmother of the little ones underfoot. Though she lives nearby, she is no longer able to work the mill herself. She handed it down the generations. The women and children are bound by blood and marriage, but more by love and commitment. Conversations range widely and opinions are freely expressed. Ideas are lofted, dissected, and consensus reached.

At the end of the day, the value is not just in the gleaming pink bags that promise pleasure for many winter suppers to come. The value is the sharing of life.