Throw An Apple At It

“If you see something green, throw an apple at it!” My grandmother shouted out of the blue and it scared the crap out of me. I was maybe eight at the time, and I genuinely had no idea what she was talking about, but she said it with such seriousness that I was afraid to crack a smile at the insanity of her words. 

“What?” My confusion eventually overwhelmed me and I simply had to ask. 

“Didn’t your mama ever teach you it’s not polite to stare?” She tisked at me. “I sure know I taught her that lesson.” 

I loved my grandmother. She was a bit of a kook at times, but she had a great sense of humor and a secret zest for life most people knew nothing about. 

“Yes, Ma’am,” I replied respectfully. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare at you.” 

“What were you looking at anyhow?”

“I was just thinking about how tall you were and I hope I grow up to be just like you,” I smiled at her. The expression on her face changed to one of bemusement. 

“I don’t know that I ever did grow up, Honey.” She chuckled a bit, patted my knee and smiled. It was remarkable that a woman in her early 70’s could appear so young when she smiled, showing off every single one of her own teeth. We trundled down the road in her old car, the radio playing so softly I could still hear the gravel of the long private drive crunch beneath the tires. 

She still had that same car ten years later, but the drive had been exchanged for a paved road in a small town. My grandfather had passed away several years before, but my grandmother was still a live wire. I was legally considered an adult by then, but we were both just kids at heart. I knew we would always be that way, my grandmother and I. She was my best friend and I adored her. 

By the time we reached the store, we’d touched on about eight different interesting subjects for random future conversations, but not digging deep into any of them. She let slip that she’d been engaged to be married before she met my grandfather, and I knew I needed to get more of that story out of her as soon as I was able. It was a delicate matter that I’d need to ease my way into slowly, though. 

“Grandma, do you think I’m like you at all?” 

“Oh dear me. More than you realize,” she grinned. Her aging eyes sparkled with that hint of a secret life once more. She was so mysterious, but her secrets were locked away in her heart, possibly to never be exposed. 

“How so?” 

“You and I are cut from the same cloth. You got your secrets and I got mine. And I think you know well enough to not pry into other people’s business.” Her glance met me and she winked swiftly. I knew better than to pry, no matter how badly I wanted to know about her first boyfriend. “His name was Arthur, he was a pilot” she admitted. “That’s all I’ll say about it today.” Swift as a woman of half her age, she got out of the car and closed the door. 

I jumped out of the car and ran around to catch up to her. I had a million questions, but I couldn’t figure out where to start. She had said that was all she’d say about it, but how could I coax her into telling me more about the mysterious Arthur? My grandmother spoon fed me a cliff hanger and just walked away like that! I walked beside her, occasionally glancing up at her and pondering what I could say or ask that wouldn’t be a direct question but still lead her to give me more information on her mysterious past. I kept falling short in my attempts. 

“Hey, Manda,” she prompted me at a low whisper.  My heart raced. Was she about to tell me something I was dying to know?

“Yes, Grandma?” I asked in a low whisper to match.

“If you see something green,” she paused, glancing down at me, “throw an apple at it.” 

“But I don’t have an apple,” I joked back at her. I’d been waiting ten years to use that childish retort, but it fell somewhat flat. She kept right on strolling through the store. “So what does it mean,” I asked her. I didn’t understand the saying and I knew I probably never would. 

“What does what mean?” Grandma grinned, knowing that she was teasing my curiosity mercilessly. 

“If you see something green?” 

“Well, Dear, you’re staring so hard at me I have to wonder if I have a boogie hanging out of my nose.” She winked, patted me on the shoulder, and kept right on going. 

“So you want me to throw an apple at your face if you have a booger?” I was thoroughly confused by her sometimes. 

“Well,” she shrugged, looking down at me. I never did grow up to match her frame. She was nearly six feet tall and even at her age, she looked as though she had been a remarkably beautiful woman in her youth. “Do I have a boogie,” she asked me.

“No, Ma’am.” 

“Then, no, don’t throw any apples at my face.” She chucked in her usual way and we continued on with our shopping.

Another ten years passed before I got the letter that day. She’d passed away and I was heartbroken. She was my best friend. But she’d made provisions before she passed away. She made sure that the letter would be sent to me on the day of her death. I loved her dearly. As much as I wanted to be like her, I knew I’d only ever stand in her remarkably tall and powerful shadow. But her letter somehow delivered a sense of comfort. I still take it out and read it now and again. 

“If you see something green,” it starts, “throw an apple at it. I love you, Manda. Don’t ever forget that, and stop trying to be like me. Just be like you.”

“His name was Arthur,” she continued. “He was brave and strong and kind. And he was a bit of a kook if you ask me. But I loved him dearly too. We didn’t get married and you’ll receive a box in the next few days that will tell you the whole story. The road we left behind was filled with adventure and love and excitement. I hope you do something special with it. Maybe you can turn it into one of those books you love to write someday.” 

I reached over to the coffee table and picked up one of the fake apples in the wooden bowl, tucked her letter back under it, and smiled. My grandmother, the wing walking, high flying, Arthur loving, adventure having, crazy kook of a lady she was would be thrilled to know that I’d done exactly what she had figured I’d do someday. I finally wrote her story, “The Road We Left Behind,” and planned to deliver the first copy to her mausoleum later on that afternoon.