Apple Tree - Monday Memory

There was a little apple tree in our back yard.  It was a small, scraggly, scrappy tree that produced a nondescript variety of apple.  My dad built a split-rail fence across the back of our yard with just enough space to mow between the tree and the fence.  That meant that I could climb the fence to make it easier to get into the tree.  (The tree's crotch was about as high as I was.)     

My mom had forbidden me to climb the tree.  The warnings she issued were, "Do not climb the apple tree" and "Stay out of that tree."  I was a mostly-obedient child, plus I didn't want to get hurt if I fell from the tree and I didn't want to face my mother's anger if she caught me.  But I did climb the tree once (without getting caught or falling) and decided the bark was too rough and scratchy.  Not only that, being in that little tree was nothing spectacular.  Because it wasn't tall enough to give an expansive view and it wasn't full enough to hide in, it didn't have the attraction that being in a bigger tree might have.

Nonetheless, I loved the tree.  In late summer the apples fell to the ground.  Sometimes I would find one that was still perfect--not bruised from its fall or half-eaten by birds or bugs.  In those days, I thought there was nothing better than eating one of the tree's fresh, sun-warmed apples.

Have I mentioned that my mother was frugal?  Nothing went to waste in our home if she could help it.  During the days the apples were ripe and falling, she gathered them from the ground or sent me out to collect them.  Mom looked them over, choosing which had enough good fruit left to use.  She cut and boiled them for applesauce or, better, she peeled and sliced them for pie.  And please don't ask me why we didn't pick them from the tree instead of letting them fall.  I have no idea why.  Maybe there weren't enough ripe at any one time to make it worth getting the ladder out to pick them.

There were days when there were enough bruised apples left on the ground that we had to be careful where we stepped.  The bees buzzed around the fruit, claiming the apples as their own. 

Sometime after I left home, the tree either died or was cut down.  I wish I had a photo of the tree, even if only in the background of a family photo.

Isn't is strange how, in the midst of life, we take things for granted that in later years we look upon as happy memories?  I so wish I had photos of some of the times, places, and events from my past.

-–Nancy.

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