The Apple Orchard

Today was the day I looked so forward to. After weeks and weeks of hot, dry weather and smoky, acrid air due to the wildfires around me, fall had finally arrived. That meant picking apples, one of my favorite pastimes, and making apple cider out of them. This wasn’t any kind of apple cider. See, I make two kinds: one for the kids and one for the adults that contains slightly more alcohol content than a typical bottle of wine.

On this particular day, the previous day’s rain cleared the sky. In its place were scattered gray clouds that dotted the deep blue sky, with some sunshine mixed in. A cold north wind reminded us that winter was around the corner. I called my girlfriend Kim to see if she was up to picking apples. She said yes. I picked her up and we drove an hour to Jensen’s Apple Farm as they were hosting apple picking. We bundled up for the occasion: Kim was dressed in blue jeans, boots, hooded coat, scarf, and gloves; I was dressed in blue jeans, boots, a red long sleeve polo shirt, light coat, a beanie to cover my bald head, and gloves.

We left town and drove for a half hour north on the interstate. We exit the interstate and make a right turn on some road that even the most expert linguist would have a hard time pronouncing; all I remember is that it started with Z. I asked Kim, “How do you pronounce the name of this road we’re on?”

Kim looked at me like I was from another planet. “How would I know? You’re the English teacher!” She was good at putting me in my place if I pushed her too far. Thinking about it, I did push her buttons too much, causing her brain to go “TILT”, like one would see when playing a pinball machine and pushing it past its limits.

Anyhow, the road kept going. At first it was a gentle climb, and not too winding. We went from valley to foothills within 10 miles of exiting. Then we endured another 20 minutes of steep, winding road, sometimes with a 9% upgrade. The old truck took it beautifully, like a champ. Finally, we make the left turn onto Burroughs Road. The farm was within sight; it was a half mile away down a fairly flat gravel road and set in a small valley. The farm itself was about a quarter mile off Burroughs. The farm is at roughly 3,500 feet above sea level, and the apples they grow are some of the sweetest apples I have ever tasted.

We arrive, baskets in tow. (They have a two-basket limit policy.) We checked in with a tall, gracious and sweet elderly lady, who introduced herself as Eleanor Jensen, the matriarch of the Jensen family. I introduced us as Jon and Kim. She weighed our buckets and noted the weight of each bucket. She then weighed a cart that she assigned to us. She gave us a ticket to return to her once we were finished picking.

Kim and I ventured into the orchard. The sights of the golden leaves, combined with the red and green apples and the dark brown soil made for a lovely fall postcard. Add in the clouds and sunshine and the surrounding greenery of the hills and it was perfect. The cold wind whipping in from the north made our faces as red as the apples grown in the orchard. With that cold wind, an occasional waft of smoke from the Jensen's fireplace could be noticed.

We looked around, searching for the best apples. I studied each tree intently. I picked one that was about the size of a softball and motioned for Kim to come over. She had already picked a few apples; none were as big as mine. Mine was an outlier, as the apples she picked were closer to the average size of these kinds of apples, called Burroughs apples. We decided to go together from that point, as it was her first time picking apples and I was more experienced. She would ask me what I thought and I would give thumbs-up or thumbs-down. She picked the thumbs-up apples. We went through several rows of apple trees before both of our buckets were full. By then, I noticed Kim was starting to shiver due to the cold wind knifing through her clothes.  

We sauntered back to the table, dragging our cart carrying two apple-laden buckets to where Eleanor was sitting. She smiled and made small talk with us as she weighed each bucket. For a woman who barely weighed over a buck and was in her early seventies, she was very physically strong. She lifted the heavy buckets onto the scale with ease. We ended up picking slightly more than 40 pounds of apples, and ended up paying a little more than 25 dollars in total. Before we left, she offered us free apple cider, to which we gladly accepted. We conversed with Eleanor as we partook of her excellent apple cider.

“Eleanor, this apple cider is excellent!” I said. “It’s very smooth, clean, and has a hint of cinnamon.”

Kim interjected, “Yes, this is excellent, Eleanor. It’s perfect on a day like today! I love these kinds of days: cold, somewhat cloudy, and enjoying a hot drink!”

As we continued to converse, a tall, husky man emerged from the back. He introduced himself as Eleanor’s son Mark.

“Mom, I’m going to help Juan set up the kids’ area now. They should be starting to arrive pretty soon.”

Kim asked, “A kids area?”

Eleanor replied, “Every year at the first weekend of apple season, we invite the kids of the community and surrounding communities for a tour of the farm and a play area for them, apple-themed, of course! For the older kids (12-16 years old), we break them up into teams of two for an apple picking contest. The contest should start in an hour or so. We would love to have you stay and watch.”

Kim and I ended up staying and observing the kids having fun in their play area. We also watched the apple picking contest, which was won by two 14-year-old boys, Abraham and Martin, who were invited by their friend John.

The overriding lesson that I learned from the apple orchard is: apples are like people in a small sense. In order to pick good apples, you have to know their characteristics: is it mature; is the fruit good to taste, is it good when under the fire of cooking, and so forth. People are similar. When selecting friends, you find and keep the good ones and toss the rotten ones, much like apples.

Kim and I talked about that principle on the way back from the apple orchard, and she agreed. And for the life of me, I STILL cannot pronounce that road that we exited off the interstate to get there! All I know is that it starts with the letter Z!!