B&B

October had spread across the countryside painting the leaves in its wake. The crisp breeze rustled the already fallen leaves as they ventured out to the orchard. The local orchard, Bees and Blossoms, was less than a mile from their home by foot. Over the past twenty-five years that they had been married this back-wood walk had become a family tradition. 

She remembered when they had first found the “orchard” path the first year that they lived on Morningstar Road. She had spied the small wooden arrow when they came back from a grocery trip one Autumn day. Falling leaves and bare limbs revealed the weathered sign engraved with B&B. Its pointed end indicating an equally weathered path. In those days, the path was overgrown and ill-defined. Large stones littered the way and brambles would scratch their legs and hands making it seem as if they were on a real adventure. 

Back when they were younger and their love was new, they had adventured down that path not knowing where it led but confident in the notion that it would be worth trekking into the unknown. She reached for his hand several times to steady herself when she stumbled on the odd jutting stone. They stopped several times during that first walk, to look at the spectacular changing foliage, to investigate the stream that meandered alongside the path, and often just to stop and gaze into one another’s eyes. The excitement of the little adventure led to passionate kissing there on the unknown path in the middle of the woods on their way to an unknown destination. The end of the path was marked by a battered arch way with a wooden sign that welcomed them to the Bees and Blossoms Orchard. The Orchard spread out for as far as the eye could see and was ablaze with apples in every hue. It smelled of fermenting apples and was filled with people wandering down long rows with large baskets. The people stopped here and there to pick what they felt was the most perfect Crispin or Rome. She beamed at her beau and asked if he would like apple pie for dinner.

As the B&B grew so did the crowd of people who visited the small country town during the Fall months. The locals knew that they only way to go to the orchard was to use the path. Over the years, their annual adventure thru the woods to the orchard had become more of a walk in a park. Their once hidden path was now cleared and well-marked for those who chose to walk their way leaving the car and need to park at home. It was no longer the adventure it once appeared to be but more of a marked the commencement of holiday festivities for their family for the past quarter of a century. 

Now as they made their pilgrimage, she looked at her husband, the hair at his temples had silvered over the years and the creases at the corners of his determined eyes had deepened. She giggled remembering how the children had used him as a jungle gym, a pack mule, and navigator all at once during these trips to the B&B. 

She mused about when their family was young, the children would plod along picking up every leaf, bug, and stone for proper inspection. In those days, their expedition would take upwards of an hour to make the 15-minute trek. The children delighted in running ahead, finding some treasure, and running back to the rest of the family to present their once-in-a-lifetime find. 

He chuckled as he recalled how the children would present her with their most precious finds hoping that she would deem it worthy of display. The bragging their children did if their stone or leaf made its way to the overburdened shelf in the family room was relentless. After all these years those stones, dried leaves, feathers, and delicate flowers still adorned that shelf. When the children are home for the holidays they still try and get Mom to declare an all-time winner, but she declines to answer saying that she loved all her treasures equally. Little did they know that her favorite was none of theirs at all. It was a small dried up daisy. The year she was 1^st pregnant, she waddled down the path determined to make it to the B&B so she could make apple pie for the soon to be baby. He had suggested that they skip the orchard that year, but she wanted her baby to taste the season’s 1^st pie even if was still in her tummy. He had stopped her along the path, in a puddle of sunlight, and told her that she was so much more beautiful then he had ever realized. He picked the flower and placed it behind her ear declaring her the most beautiful woman there ever was. That small dried flower was her favorite and it was tucked on that shelf, way back behind the rest. 

Those trips were different each year, sometimes filled with infighting and reprimanding, other times filled with laughter and good will. The thing that stayed the same was the delight that took over when they stepped foot beneath the archway. The B&B was a part of their family's magic, it's past, present, and future. That magic filled them up every year.

As they made it to the Orchard he took her hand and led the way on their familiar route, stopping first to pick up their baskets, then plotting their course after consulting with the orchard owner who always knew exactly what was in peak season, and finally down the rows to find the most perfect apples. They sauntered down the aisles inspecting each tree and trying apples of different varieties. Twisting and pulling the best from the limbs of the tiny trees. Experience had taught them how to pick the tastiest fruit for their seasonal inaugural pie. 

She pulled the most perfect red delicious and thrusted it high in the sky for him to behold. They too had had a secret competition all these years, each claiming to know just apple was perfect. He walked over to her and pulled her close. He nuzzled into her hair and gruffly whispered, “of course the most beautiful woman picked the most perfect apple!”