Just Apple Picking

Just Apple Picking

Suzanne Marsh

I should have titled this Lucy and Ethel pick apples, it is that sort of a story. My neighbor Sandy, was the type who was always talking about natural and organic vegetables and fruit. How delicious home grown items were. She, was always sending over samples. Tomato sauce that she canned or green beans fresh from the garden. She texted me one morning:

“Hey, how would you like to go picking apples? There is an add in paper for Apple Granny's

Barn in Middleport. It will be fun. Be ready at ten”

I texted back:

“I don't know anything about picking apples but I'll go with you. A nice ride in the country

would be great see you at ten.”

Words of prophecy or words of doom. The girls were fighting by the time I rounded up my son. I broke that up, got them ready for school. Then I had a nice hot cup of coffee, to get my day started. I needed something at that point to wake up. I looked at the clock; rushed to get dressed, put a brush through my hair, damn, it was time for Sandy to pick me up. Middleport was roughly a thirty minute drive, a small town built on the Erie Canal. Apple Granny's Barn was a huge old red gambrial roofed barn, on Middleport Road. Sandy, pulled into the parking lot, we got the last parking spot; that should have told me something, such as it was crowded and we were going to have to stand and wait. Finally we stood in front of Granny herself who handed us two cloth bags and a ladder. That in itself was foreboding, in my naivety I asked:

“Why do I need a ladder?”

Granny had a real good laugh:

“Honey, how else are you going to reach the apples?”

“You mean you don't have those tree shaker things?”

“No, this is an organic farm.”

Granny pointed out where the different types of apples were, we were going to pick Mackintosh apples, they are noted for their tartness. Sandy informed me that they were excellent for making applesauce and apple pies. That I could relate to. Sandy, picked up the ladder and her cloth bag, like she had been doing this all her life. Me, I almost knocked Sandy and Granny out with the ladder as I swung around to speak to Sandy. We made it out the door of the barn with no more incidents. We walked to the designated area. Ladders simply are not my forte, I had a really rotten time attempting to put the ladder in place. Sandy, pretended she did not know me. I stumbled up the ladder, hanging on each rung for dear life. I was not a happy camper, I like instant cooking, from microwave to table in less than ten minutes.

Sandy, appeared to be having a wonderful time. She truly was in her element. She chattered as she picked apples. Me? I was still hanging on the second rung from the bottom of the ladder. Sandy turned toward me, with a great deal of consternation in her voice:

“You, need to climb to the top of the ladder, that is the only way to pick the apples.”

“Easy for you Sandy, I am afraid of height to begin with. These ladder rungs scare me.”

“Just climb and don't look down.”

“Oh sure, I feel like I am frozen in time.”

“Well, unfreeze yourself and start climbing.”

I did as instructed, not willingly but I did try. I wondered what ever happened to miniature fruit trees that I had read about. I could easily reach the top of those standing on the ground; instead I found myself climbing further up the ladder, toward what? After several more stops at the fifth, sixth and seventh rungs, I finally made it to the top of the ladder. I saw a big round juicy apple, reached for it; only to find a hand attached to it. I wanted to argue that I had seen it first, but somehow that did not seem like a good idea. I let go of the apple:

“You better remove your hand lady, this one is mine.”

Never being one to leave well enough alone:

“Problem, here I saw it first.”

“Sorry my hand got there before yours did.”

Then several other apple pickers chimed in:

“Just ignore Sheila, she thinks she should have all the good apples.”

Sheila, released the apple. I grabbed it as the ladder began to tip, I quickly shifted my weight and the fool thing righted itself. Sandy, had been watching:

“See, I told you this was fun.”

“Fun, I almost fell off the ladder.”

Most of the pickers snickered but no one said anything. How could this possibly be fun? I had one apple in the cloth bag, with how many more to go. Sandy planned to teach me to make my own applesauce...Whoopie. I could think of all sorts of things I would rather be doing and this was right at the bottom of my list. I saw another apple, I just did not see the bee that was sitting on it. The bee stung me, I screamed. This jolted every picker there, I guess it was a bit shrill. Sandy, yelled:

“Are you okay? What happened?”

Now I felt like a fool as I sheepishly replied:

“I just got stung by a bee that decided he needed the apple more than I did.”

The stinger was still in my finger, but by now I was becoming a hardened apple picker. I began to add more apples, and actually began to relax. I still thought this was a lot of trouble to go through when I could just as easily go out and buy applesauce already made in a can.

At last my bag was full of apples, four hours, one bee sting and sore feet later. Somehow I was just not geared toward homemade anything. Later that evening when my husband came home he asked:

“How was your day?”

“Oh just picking apples, dear, just picking apples.”