The signs of fall
take a little longer to show up in this part of California. October brings warm days and cooler nights, a little bit of color change in the trees, and pumpkin
flavored everything. (Can we all just please agree that not everything tastes good in pumpkin
flavor? Pumpkin lattes, yes. Pumpkin milkshakes, no thank you.)
The real key sign of fall
in my neck of the woods is the emergence of the local high school marching
band. The football field is directly behind our house, so I have long list of things I want to shove down that damn
tuba, starting with the kid playing the tuba. And the drummer who apparently
knows only one beat. And the football game announcer. And the school’s entire
sound system. (And must the band practice after 9pm? Really?)
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| Photo credit: Flicker Creative Commons |
All these signs of fall do make me a bit nostalgic though. Growing up in Michigan, my
grandparents had a small apple orchard. (Yes, an apple orchard on a busy road in the middle of Flint, down the street from the
high school. It was awesome.) They had a two-family farm house, and my parents
and I lived in the upstairs unit until I was in second grade. Almost every kind
of apple you can imagine grew on the property, and every autumn, my Grandma Ola sold
apples by the bushel from our front porch. As summers came to a close, traffic
would start slowing down in front of our house as drivers craned their necks to
see if the apples were out yet.
As a kid, I loved helping my Grandpa Ruben take care of the
apples. He would hook up my little red wagon behind the huge tractor and pull
me around the orchard while he sprayed the trees.
Wait. WHAT??
Yes, you read all of that right. Let me break it down.
A simple little red wagon, the kind with the wooden sides that
slip in and out. A small child sitting inside. Being pulled behind a huge
tractor, attached with a rope and some knots. Over bumpy terrain. As the tractor
driver sprayed pesticide into the trees while the child breathed it in. I can
still smell it.
Ah, it was a different time.
You’re probably appalled right now, but it’s one of my
favorite childhood memories. Blissfully unaware of the dangers, I would freely sing
songs I made up at the top of my lungs because I knew grandpa couldn’t hear me
over the roar of the tractor (which, now that I think about it, was another
safety hazard). I liked how the bumpy ride made my voice vibrate and teeth chatter,
how the breeze loosened hairs from my ponytail and tickled my face.
I can still see my view from the red wagon – grandpa’s back
sitting atop that giant old tractor in his white t-shirt and mesh cap, the massive
rear wheels rising up, their deep treads chewing up grass and dirt, the
sunbeams flashing like a strobe light through the leaves as the trees whizzed
by.
I have lots of great memories of my Grandpa Ruben, who
passed away six years ago. My last memories of him are from the hospital, where
he looked thin and frail in his bed, yet still telling jokes and making the
nurses laugh.
Even now, almost thirty years later and across the country, whenever
I bite into a Red Delicious or Granny Smith, I’m five years old again – climbing
apple trees to the tippy top, watching deer eat apples that had fallen to the
ground, and grandpa’s big smile as looked back at me over his shoulder from
atop that old tractor.
