This post is a revision to a previous essay of the same name. This revision will be included in Zine #1.
I’m sitting impatiently on this bail of hay, watching the trees pass. My make-shift bench is secured to the inside of a flat-bed being towed by a large green tractor. I see my mother is seated next to me, she’s laser focused on my brother, hoping he doesn’t jump out. We share our ranch-limosine with four other families, none of whom seem to mind bouncing around like loose change. “Please keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle at all time” is normally a request but right now it feels like a challenge. The true challenge though, is trying to avoid melting in the late-summer Germantown sun. Dear reader, have you ever prayed to God for a meagre breeze? Well, my prayer was answered and a breeze came… but the monkey paw curled. My face was cooled but my nose was accosted by the smell of manure so strong it made me wince. I know that nature is beautiful and modern agriculture is revolutionary and yada yada yada but why can’t it all smell like freshly baked pie? But the smell and the heat won’t deter me because today we’re at Butler’s Orchard to pick apples, like we do almost every summer, and this year I’m going for gems.
Everyone is silent. Friendly conversation is simply not possible over the sound of the 4.5 litre diesel engine as it groans and sputters. Our driver moves us through the muddy track with the grace of a starving man at a Chinese buffet. Each crater we hit reminds me that I am one bad turn from a face full of dirt. I’ve got a death grip on my apple bag out of fear the next bump will send it (or me) flying. We round the last corner and one by one, the passengers turn to face the front. I feel my eyes widen as I take in a classic piece of Americana: a vast array of apple trees as far as the eye can see. Each tree brimming with shiny red rubies, ready to be picked by this 12 year old’s chubby little hands. I stumble off my hay bail as the tractor comes to an abrupt stop. The engine cuts out and the silence is quickly filled with eager chit-chat. I get up and shake the stray vegetation off my pants. I see my brother run to the back of the flatbed to be first one off so I hurry over, right behind him. The driver helps me down and as my feet hit the ground, I sink 2 inches. My mother did tell me to wear boots. I excitedly but delicately run to the grid of trees, plastic bag in hand, picking apples like the pestilence just ended. I think I heard the driver directing us on where each species is but I wasn’t listening. Maybe it was actually my poor mother calling in the distance, telling me to wait for her. Sorry mom, this tractor has no brakes.
The orchard floor is covered in apples. Rotten, stepped on, and eaten away by forest critters. I wonder if the apples I’m picking weep for their fallen brethren. And if the apples I don’t pick, weep for the ones I do. Each apple I see looks better than the last, rounder, shinier, apple-ier. My bag gets so heavy, I struggle to get to the next set of trees. I look down the row of trees and see my brother, having already filled his bag, start tasting each apple he comes across. My mother is across the orchard enjoying the pears instead. I think she likes them more. As I go to join my mother in the pear-tasting, I see the tractor return to take us back to the entrance. Of course my brother, having spotted it first, has already started the line. So I hurry over, right behind him. We board the flatbed and take our same seats on the bails of hay. The driver does a quick safety check (maybe too quick), locks up the trailer, and we leave the orchard. The ride is just as shaky as before but now I have 2 pounds of apples to keep me in place. I take a deep breath and appreciate the fruits of my labour. We get about halfway back from the orchard when I notice my apples look a little different. I fear that the bumps have caused the apples to dent one another. I open my bag and notice several apples have tiny perfectly circular holes. I take one out and see a creature emerge. It’s a worm. I guess she couldn’t handle the bumpy ride either.