A is for Apple
The orchard was my magical kingdom. A once upon a time in a land not so far away kind of place, where old knuckled trees whispered secrets to us kids who entered there. We couldn’t wait to run down the grassy corridors and disappear in the dark tunnels of arching branches. Losing ourselves for long hours among the colossal trees, we’d sit at their feet and read the sky or climb up and lie in the crook of a limb, as if it were a hammock, and start, “I’m thinking of an animal…” for the other to guess which orchard creature it was. Hide and seek was a favorite game, too. The prizes were always sweet, juicy apples. As we spit out the seeds, we’d imagine ourselves a couple of Johnny Appleseeds whose dream it was for the land to produce so many apples that no one would ever go hungry. When the hot day’s wind left us dusty and in need of cooling off, we’d race to the edge of the orchard where an irrigation ditch flowed fast and clear, its grass-lined banks slicked our impulse to jump in. It was a jungle, lush paradise, our Eden. We reveled in this domain of fantasy and memory, myth and history.
My grandparent’s orchard was located a little more than a mile south of Tieton, Washington. Tieton is a tiny town perched on the western edge of the Yakima valley. They had thirteen acres of fruit—apples mostly, but some pears and cherries.
I returned to Tieton recently, with apples on my mind. The fruit-laden trees, like buxom sirens, had me pulling to the side of the road to partake of their sweetness. The apples are crisp and sweet as ever. But the orchards are different . . . [Read the full essay in Essay Pages]
Copyright © Jane Alynn
Published in The Natural Enquirer, October/November 2009
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