You, Me and an Apple Tree

“Grandma, Grandma, come on!” The chipper voice of my granddaughter, Elena, coos from a few yards ahead. I can’t help but smile as I watch her skip and twirl as she gleefully explores the orchard that has captivated my heart for so long. Her golden curls bounce with youthful exuberance as she wanders further and further ahead. I struggle to keep up, the natural landscape proving far more daunting than I remember. As my weathered joints do their best to carry me across the rolling hills, I watch my granddaughter fondly. “Grandma, look, here are all the green ones!” She chirps as she scoops up a ripe green apple in her hand.

           “Remember what flavor those have?” I laugh, though I’m a little taken back by the fragility of my voice. When did it age like this?

           “Sour!” Elena squeals as she takes a hardy bite, her sapphire eyes go wide as she puckers at the tartness. I let out an earnest snicker as I finally catch up to her. I take a seat on an overturned basket, one of the big ones that the farmers use to haul up dozens and dozens of apples. I smile at Elena as she goes about sorting through the Granny Smiths, tossing aside the ones that are tarnished or decayed.

           “Would you like to know a secret?” I ask her. My frail and wrinkled fingers skim the dewy grass, collecting one of the apples my dear Elena has deemed “imperfect”.

           “Yes!” She giggles as I pat the basket beside me. She climbs a top it and settles in next me. Her overalls are dirty from the time we’ve spent in the orchards today. The pastel pink flannel that my daughter, Bethany, has dressed her in makes her look like a little autumnal doll. The rosiness of her cheeks and the wornness of her boots remind me of myself when I was young, and of Bethany, too. I smile.

           “You see how this apple is dark on this one side? And this little hole here in its skin… just here, do you see it?” I point to a tiny blemish on the apple’s skin. Elena nods, taking in the apple that rests in my hand. “My grandma used to tell me that the apples with the most spots and scratches, kind of like this one, make the sweetest pies.”

           “Really?” She eyes the apple more closely, I’m not sure what she expects to find. “Your grandma liked apples too?”

           “She loved them.” I sigh. “She used to bring me to this very orchard. Just like I’ve brought you here today.”

           “She did?” She gasps, excited by the fact that she and I share something so simple, something as simple as an ordinary apple orchard.

           “Yes.” I inhale the crisp scent of apples and exhale as the chilly October breeze consumes me. I turn to face the spanning rows of apple trees that lie before us. The green and gold trees are dotted with the richest red and brightest green apples I have ever seen. The sky is bold today, white and fluffy clouds hover over the horizon and the warm autumn sun casts brilliant shadows throughout the orchard. It takes me back to a day exactly like it, in October of 1952.

~

           The sun was unseasonably warm that day. I remember the feeling of vitamin D soaking into my pores. My grandma’s perfume, an earthy, comforting scent, combined with the crisp breeze, entangled my senses. I was a rather energetic child, eager to explore. I galloped ahead of my grandma by several paces, picking up discarded apples and dropping them a few feet down the path. My grandma would chuckle, ever so faintly, as I wandered the vastness of the orchard.

           “Ginny.” Her voice was like a fresh cup of coffee, warm and rich. “Do you remember what I told you? About the ugly apples?”

           “They make the sweetest pies.” I giggled, my youthful voice was rather chipmunky.

           “Precisely.” She smiled. She grabbed my hand as we strolled throughout the apple trees, weaving between vibrant crops of red and yellow fruit. The air smelled of cider and the sun was the deepest amber color, the atmosphere of the orchard was intoxicating, in the very best of ways.

           “Grandma?” I said as we stopped in front of a rather small tree. The poor, dilapidated thing barely had four or five apples growing on it.

           “Yes Ginny?” My grandmother eyed me. Something about my grandmother’s eyes always seemed so calming to me. Perhaps it was the wisdom she possessed.

           “Did you used to bring Mommy here, to the apple orchard?” I chirped as I sashayed around the tiny tree. My hand-sewn dress twirled around my small frame, the plaid material and soft lace dancing with me in my waltz with autumn. My chocolatey red hair was done up in braids, and the sun seemed to emphasize my freckles more than ever.

           “No. I never brought your mother here.” My grandma’s voice was soft as she spoke. She took a seat upon a picking basket and watched as I continued to sort through varying shapes and varieties of apples.

           “Why not?” I said.

           “It’s been a long-standing tradition in our family for grandmas and grand-girls to come to this apple orchard together. I never brought your mother here because her grandma was the one who accompanied her, just like I bring you, and just as you’ll bring your granddaughter one day.”

           “Oh.” I said. “I’m glad you bring me here, Grandma.”

           “I’m glad I do too, Ginny.” She chuckled.

           The two of us sat by that small apple tree for a good, long while. As the sun dipped lower and lower on the horizon, my grandmother aided in my search for the most scrumptious looking apples. Her wrinkled hands and brittle fingers would scoop up the fruit and I, being the ever-so-masterful apple farmer that I was, would decide whether they were worthy of being baked into one of her famous Dutch apple pies. We could spend hours that way, just the two of us.

           “Grandma, look at this one.” I galloped over to where she rested, cradling a particularly bruised and battered Red Delicious in my palms.

           “Ooo, let me see that, Ginny.” She took it from my fingers and studied it closely. “Look at this one, so imperfectly perfect. See how the skin is all bruised and the flesh is peeling a bit here? Do you see it, Ginny?”

           “It looks kind of yucky.” I couldn’t help but grimace at the ugly little apple.

           “Let me tell you a little secret, dear.” My grandma patted her knee, beckoning me to climb atop her lap. I did just that. My tiny frame rested comfortably in the crook of her bosom, I could smell her perfume and feel the warmth of her wool sweater. “This apple is extraordinary. Though it looks rather ugly and unappealing on the outside, it’s hiding something far more valuable than shiny skin and perfect symmetry within it. Do you know what that is?”

           “No.” I eyed my grandmother curiously. “What is it hiding?”

           “On the outside, this apple is bruised, battered and blemished. Its skin is wrinkled and there are holes that mark it unworthy. To any average eye, this apple is ugly, and therefore it’s not worth the time or energy to explore what’s on the inside. But, what you don’t know simply by looking at it, is that this apple is the sweetest one in the crop.” She took a moment to polish off one side of the apple before handing it to me to taste. I took a big bite of the fruit, doing my best to avoid the “worm holes” and bruises. The flavorful flesh immediately awakened my senses. The smell of crisp, sugary apples filled my nostrils, and the sweet, juicy nectar coated my throat with the most delicious autumnal essence.

           “It’s so yummy!”

           “Exactly my point, Ginny.” My grandmother chuckled as I dove in for another bite. “We can learn a lot from this apple, my darling granddaughter. No matter what someone may look like on the outside, no matter how bruised or blemished they might be, the inside is where we truly find someone’s worth. No matter how imperfect someone’s exterior might be, it’s inside them where we find out how sweet or sour they are. It’s where you discover their true nature. So, no matter what, I want you to always remember, never judge something based on its outward appearance alone, Ginny. Because the true beauty of something is found deep, deep inside.”

~

           I blink against the sunbeams as I pull myself from the memory of my grandmother. I look down at Elena and smile. She’s enthralled with my story and I can’t help but laugh. Her overalls are extra dusty from the day’s exploration, and there’s the tiniest freckles perched atop her nose (I suppose those are courtesy of my gene pool). I pat her back gently, holding her next to me as the sun begins its decent towards the horizon. We’ve been here all day, just the two of us, just like my grandmother and I used to do.

           “I think you had a good grandma.” Elena’s voice breaks my train of thought.

           “You do, huh?” I smile.

           “Yes.” She pauses for a moment. I can see her pondering something in her mind as she studies the apples we’ve collected so far. “We should go home and bake a pie, Grandma.”

           “That sounds like a marvelous idea, Elena.” The two of us stand and begin our journey back to the car. Elena’s tiny hand cradles the basket of apples we’ve harvested, and her other rests daintily in mine. We stroll quietly for a while, just my granddaughter and I. The breeze is chilly, the sun is fading and the air smells of cinnamon from the farmhouse up the road. The burning glow that the sunset casts upon the horizon illuminates the apple trees as we pass them. The reds seem to be redder and the greens far more green. I’ve never been able to place my finger on exactly what it is that makes October the most brilliant, exquisite time of year, but I have no doubts that it absolutely is.

           “Grandma?” Elena stops and looks up at me, her little face seems serious all of a sudden.

           “Yes?”

           “I have a good grandma too. The best grandma.” She drops the basket of apples, sending a couple of them tumbling out and rolling down the hill back to where we found them. She wraps her petite arms around my hips, and gives me a good squeeze. Just like the colors of autumn, I melt.

           “Aww, my dear.”

           “I love you, Grandma.” She smiles as she gathers up what’s left of our apples and takes my hand to leave again.

           “I love you too, Elena.”

           “Can we come back here again soon?” She asks as we start to walk.

           “Of course, Dear.” I glance over my shoulder at the beauty of the orchard fading behind us. It’s something like a painting, one that only the most talented artist could create. And it warms every part of me. It awakens each fiber of my being, just as it did when I was a girl. I smile. “We’ll come back here real soon, Elena. Back to our favorite orchard, where it can just be you, me and an apple tree.”

THE END