FALL, FAMILY AND APPLES

    
  
When I drive to northern Michigan in the middle of October I just hold my breath. The wide sweep of blazing maize, outrageous orange and firecracker reds seem endless. Even the weeds and tall grasses are showing off their colors: burnt browns, mustard yellow. I am humbled with God's immense paintbrush. Exiting the interstate, dodging traffic in town, I turn unto Center Road which bisects Old Mission Peninsula. At the first wide sweep of rolling water, orchard and vineyard dotted hills, I murmur my traditional prayer given each returning trip, "Thank you God for giving me this."


My attention turns from the immenseness of autumn to the fall I can hold in my hands: apples. Fruit stands begin popping up mid July on Center Road: a new bright purple one with fancy awning and changeable sign to advertise selections, a circular yellow wooden stand with artistic fruit painted along the bottom, just a card table with a jar for your money, an old stonewall. The stands begin with cherries, move to peaches, blueberries, veggies of all varieties; but in mid October apples are supreme, each kind displaying its own uniqueness, its own taste, its own memory. Now stands advertise Honey Crisp, the new kid on the block (or apple in the orchard.) “We have Honey Crisp!!” “Honey Crisp here.” Right now she’s the Miss Personality, the new Homecoming Queen.

As a child we would jump into the family station wagon for a Sunday afternoon drive: my sister and I vying for the window seats, our little brother squirming between us. It seemed like an every Sunday ritual: visiting Grandma in Athens. At least in fall we delighted in the bonus of fresh apples from the orchards surrounding Athens. I loved Jonathans, the redness of their skin, the pure whiteness of its inside. My mother, the perfect pie maker, always said, "Spys are for Pies" but she preferred the "reliable Macintosh."

When our children were young we continued the Sunday ritual with trips to Big Red in Romeo: hay wagons driven by tractors delivered families to the orchards. Guides stood in paths pointing, “Red Delicious to the right…Empires to the left.” We always looked for the Ida Red rows. They were my husband’s favorite. He would show the three year old the low hanging branches and then heft the toddler unto his shoulders, pointing out “perfect” apples to pick.

Now I hold tightly to another apple memory: making applesauce with my grandchildren: coring the apples, letting them throw the quarters into the big pot, stirring the apples to “mush” as they cook. Then the most fun of all, pulling out that “funny winder” (or food mill) from the back of the cupboard where it stays all year until apple season and getting to turn and turn it until “miracle applesauce appears.”

Memories made in Michigan.