Monday, September 24, 2012

about apples

Today me and Stan spent the best chunk of the afternoon clearing trees that were blocking the drive, making it impassable for the propane delivery truck and the UPS dude.  Stan ran the chainsaw and I hauled off the branches.  The propane tank sits beneath the branches of an apple tree, Jonathan apples, nice tart ones.  At one point we took down a pretty big limb, Stan cutting with the chainsaw and me pulling on the lower branches so that it would fall away from the apple tree.  

Apparently it was a good year for fruit in this part of northern New Mexico, but these apples are only for personal consumption, not for market.  I probably eat four or five per day.  Is my apple consumption responsible for my speedy recovery from the cold that walloped me while on the road?  I showed up at the farm around 5:00 on Saturday afternoon, and I felt horrible.  I was sure that I would be sick until Friday.  Not the case.  It's Monday and I am cured.  The other apple trees are near the chicken coop.  

Look at those apples!  There are so many of them.  If Adam had been smarter, or maybe just more patient, the whole mess of humanity's fall from grace could easily have been avoided.  If a serpent ever tempted me to pluck an apple off a tree and thus commence the downfall of an entire species, I would probably say, No thanks.  I'll just eat a couple off the ground.  If I was more ambitious or had more time, I could turn these fallen apples into apple butter.  Rose Mary seemed to like that idea.  Alas, there is more pressing work to be done.  

One thing to remember about fallen apples is this: they'll trip you.  They're the perfect size to slip under your sneaker when you're strolling around and having an otherwise very pastoral afternoon.  When we think of fruit tripping people, we usually think of banana peels, but I've never seen anyone actually trip on a banana peel.  Today, however, I narrowly avoided two apple spills.  A loose apple will sprain your ankle.  Perhaps that's what God should have said to Adam.  Don't pick an apple; you might sprain your ankle.

A car rolled down the drive during the post-lunch, afternoon knock-off.  Stan and Rose Mary were inside finishing up a nap.  I was strolling around the apple tree, strumming my ukulele.  A woman got out of the car and said that she was the kind of person who seeks out writers and shows up unannounced.  Is the writer around, she said.  I'm him, I said.  Are you his son, she said.  I'll fetch Stan, I said.  He'll just be finishing up his nap about now, I said.  I went back to the house.  Stan, I said, some woman is here and she wants to take pictures.  Stan came out of the house and straightened his hair.  I ambled over to the chicken coop and continued strumming on my uke until Stan's fan drove off.  Then we fired up the chainsaw and cut down some trees.  The dog hung around and watched us the whole time.     



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