Ah, the Apple Trees

Ah, the apple trees,

Blossoms in the breeze,

That we walked among,

Lying in the hay,

Games we used to play,

While the rounds were sung,

Only yesterday,

when the world was young.

..............Johnny Mercer

It has been a week of glorious autumn weather -- warm sun, cool breezes; dry, crisp air; breathtaking colors of foliage along the highways. It is an apology for the damp, cloudy summer. In the fall, we go apple picking along with throngs of other urban dwellers. When I was a kid, my dad would get Columbus Day off from work and we'd drive to Connecticut to a farm owned by a German couple. I don't remember their names. We'd spend the day picking blueberries. My mom didn't come with us, but she'd welcome the bounty and she'd put up blueberry jam. So when my own kids were little, we began our own tradition. We'd take them to the orchards on Columbus Day and we'd pick apples. When we got home, I'd bake apple pies, freezing a couple for Thanksgiving and Christmas. The others were our feast. Everyone would peel apples for me, and I'd make original pie crust. There were big apple trees in the orchards then, and my little boys would climb those trees. The best part of the experience! Don, my husband at the time, would take us in search of Northern Spy apples -- his grandma's favorite. We could find them while living in Pennsylvania. When we moved to
Massachusetts we had to settle for new varieties. I like the Macouns and the Cortlands for pie. They're bountiful here. When I lived in New Jersey several years ago, I discovered the Wine Sap apples. The best I've ever had in pie. Again living in Massachusetts, I seek out the Macoun apples -- there are no Wine Saps that I can find here.

The trees in the orchards now seem all to be dwarf trees. It's okay though, because I'm picking apples with Keira who is four years old.

She can reach the lowest branches. She loved apple picking this year. Happily she enjoys eating apples because she's not much for the pies. (she prefers cakes with flowers on them). I have to work on Columbus Day, but the Sunday before is perfect for pie baking. I don't have any apple peeler guys around; in spite of that there are three large pies in the freezer and one individual size pie. My daughter and I made short work of another small pie on baking day. There's also a tub of apple sauce -- I cut out the cores but leave the skin, adding only cinnamon. The sweetness of the apples is quite enough.

It is a weekend of memories; one of my long mental movies -- long enough to last me through the several hours of peeling and baking and cleaning up. I remembered the Columbus Days during the Acting Place years -- many of the actors from the Place would tag along to the orchard. I'd be baking pies into the night, with lots of music and laughter and probably a few bottles of wine thrown in. Now the baking time is rather quiet. My family and friends are scattered across the country. But it is a time unto itself; we are still memory-making. Keira was thrilled to be picking apples, and sitting under the trees at picnic tables eating them.

When I came home from work last night, there was a package for me. In it were five large Wine Sap apples sent to me by my niece, Amy. Amy lives in Media Pennsylvania where Wine Sap apples grow. She remembers the Thanksgiving pie which she enjoyed when she shared the holiday with us while I lived in Fort Lee. It was so touching a gift. The best memories are those we share. So is the best apple pie.

It is probably a conceit of mine, but it is encouraged. Jamie has told me he won't order apple pie anywhere. He's had the "real thing" and won't settle. He's due for a visit in early December; there's a pie in the freezer waiting for him.

THE WINTER THERE
When autumn came we went to see the trees
and let the small boys slide down hills
on burnished leaves. We smelled the winter there.
It stalked us from the pond, and we
were eating fallen apples when we saw
a cluster green and fresh with Christmas pine.
We trimmed them all with toys from many journeys
recalling each by name. The laughter caught
in wind and trees like billowed kites. The sky
filled up with snow. We fed the flame a log
and mellowed brandy in the half-filled glass
invoking words that once were warming there.

Across the seasons doors remain ajar.
Our visit done, we raced back to the car.
...........Mickey Coburn