The Apples Of My Eye

Ah, October. Such a perfect month, filled with crisp fall air, multicolored leaves and my personal favorite, candy. There are also family traditions, of course, and one such tradition that I was raised with: apple picking.

No, I did not grow up on a farm. Though I now reside in New York City, I grew up in suburbia with plenty of houses, cars and stores … but no farms. So when October rolled around my brother and I were always excited to trek to the orchard a couple of hours away and run free through the land. We picked apples, went on hayrides, and ate homemade pies. It was quality family time, and it was as picturesque as it sounds. We looked forward to it every year as children.

And then, we became teenagers and decided we were too old and too cool to take this trip. It was more important to talk on the phone to our friends, or hang out at their houses and discuss who was dating whom … and all the other time-consuming teenager activities you can imagine. And so, our apple picking came to a screeching halt.

After I graduated college and moved to Manhattan, my girlfriends and I decided we should resurrect this autumn tradition and trek once again to the great apple orchards of upstate New York. We all pitched in to rent a mini-van and away we went in search of fresh air, open space and delicious baked goods (oh yeah, and apples). This excursion was less about quality time together (as saw each other practically every weekend) and more about getting out of the big bad city and absorbing the great outdoors. Those expectations were met, and the drive to the orchards were filled with bags of chips, blasting music, gossip and breathtaking Technicolor leaves that Joseph and his Dreamcoat would be proud of. We would spend only 20 or 30 minutes picking actual apples and then head off to the country store to shop and eat some more. We did this for two years, and then this tradition once again fell by the wayside as we all went about our lives and became involved with seemingly more important things.

So when my mom phoned and asked if we could set aside a date to go apple picking with her, including her two year-old granddaughter, I was pleasantly surprised and very pleased. We set a date and picked the orchard, deciding to return to the same farm I had visited as a child. As the day approached, my thoughts once again turned to leaves and apples and country stores. I wondered how it would be to take my daughter apple picking and found myself with a thousand thoughts: would she like it? Would she throw a temper tantrum that two year-olds are so famous for? Would I reminisce and become very emotional and start crying in the middle of the Golden Delicious? Would it be terribly muddy? (We city girls don’t get a lot of mud.) I tried to imagine all the scenarios we could encounter (as I often do for everything) and then let them all go, saying que sera sera and deciding it would be great.

And as it turns out, I was right (love it when that happens!). It was great – everything I had hoped for and even more. Once we arrived at the orchard my girl jumped out of her car seat, so excited to see and run through the grass. She immediately fell into a big mud pile and dirtied both knees of her jeans, and I didn’t care. We ran from apple tree to apple tree – I would pick them and she would put them in the basket and then squeal with glee, reveling in her own sense of accomplishment. We picked Empires and Red Delicious and Jona Golds and more. We tested all the flavors and ate so many apples during our picking that we probably filled the produce quota in the Food Pyramid for at least a week. We went on a wagon ride with horses, played in the pumpkin patch and ran through their maze. We ate homemade pies and donuts and washed them down with fresh, crisp apple cider.

The golden afternoon sunlight, though beautiful, was the sad indication that it was time to go. I didn’t want it to end, and neither did my girl, but we both smiled happily at the satisfaction of a full and wonderful day. She then made the day even better by passing out in the car almost immediately, and I knew I wouldn’t be far behind her with my mother and husband chatting in the front seats. I stared out the window admiring Autumn’s beautiful palette of leaves once again, wondering how on Earth something could be so beautiful. As the fall foliage blurred past me, I reminisced about the role apple picking had played in my life: how much fun and how different the experience was as a child, as a young single adult and now as a mother. Each experience could be considered it’s own variety of apple, with different flavors of sweetness perfectly suited for each time. And just before I closed my eyes to the apple of my eye sitting next to me in the car seat, I caught a glimpse of my mother watching me with the same love and sweetness and I could tell that she, too, was thinking the same thing.


Author: Amy