When Tracy and I moved into our current place in November, we were told that there was an apple tree in the backyard. We thought, how neat, they must be rotten. I figured it would be similar to the lemon tree in my parent's backyard from childhood: an overgrown monstrosity that no one ever knew how or why it started let alone what was inside one of its fruits. You'd forget about it until a friend came over and asked, "Dude, you guys have a lemon tree?"
No. What? Oh, that thing? No, don't touch that. Dude! Put it down! No, not in your mouth!
The lemons were the size of softballs, dried out inside, and tasted nothing like a lemon should taste. Their best function was for chucking at one of your siblings.
So when apples started falling from the tree last month we had the same reaction. Whenever our dog Sochi came back in the house with one in her mouth, showing off her new prize, we freaked. You'll die! We never thought to try one or inquire any further. If one fell we quietly tossed it into the trash, like any other of nature's droppings.
Today, this all changed. Our neighbor came over for a minute and off-handedly offered us her ladder so we could pick the apples in our backyard. We gave her a puzzled look. "They're Gravenstein apples! Heirloom variety!" she belted.
Tracy and I had just tried Gravenstein's at the store a couple weeks ago. We knew they grew primarily in Sebastopol and had serious devotees. They are tart and have a short season. A brief internet search shows that they are only in season in July and August. Luther Burbank said, "It has often been said that if the Gravenstein could be had throughout the year, no other apple need be grown." Who is Luther Burbank? I'm not sure either. But the point remains: we had something special growing in our backyard.
We pulled out the ladder and got to work. We quickly learned, however, that picking apples is harder than it might seem. There is an art, science, technique, or tool that we clearly lacked. Even though Tracy was on the top of the ladder, she could only reach a few of the apples. It wasn't long before we changed course.
With Tracy still up on the ladder and in the thick of the tree, we resorted to shaking the tree with excessive force while the apples dropped. We'd shake and I'd dart out from underneath before being struck in the head.
When that was no longer fruitful I came up with another ingenious idea. Using an overripe apple that had already fallen from the tree, I'd launch it up at the choice apple dangling above us. When contact was made, it worked as planned: the apple would detach from the branch and drop safely onto the lawn. When I missed, I'd hold my breath, hoping it wouldn't strike my wife, perhaps knocking her from her eight-foot high perch, or an unlucky passerby.
We must have looked like buffoons.
Thirty minutes - and several laughs - later, we had a bursting bag of Gravensteins.
They're delicious. And now all we can think about is how many we let go to waste. But I guess when you put in absolutely no effort, you don't deserve the reward of a full season of apples.
Next year we'll be ready though. Maybe we'll invest in a ladder and apple-picking tools. Maybe we'll do some pruning and pay special attention to the water the tree receives. Maybe we'll grow some vegetables too.
We'll get to that eventually. But right now, I can't get past this one thought:
Is there anything more noble than to give without prompting, and all that's asked for in return is a little water?
