They wanted to stay home last Saturday.
After all, it was Saturday, and so many other things cried out for their attention. And, really, what teenage boy gets excited at the prospect of driving out to the country to pick his own apples when he could be lounging in his pjs in front of some sort of mind-numbing electronic device with a bag of chips or fruit snacks in his hand? (Don’t judge me, there will be more on this later.)
Now, my older son Zach is usually pretty mellow, and he will go along with pretty much anything. But my younger son Sam has a stubborn streak, and he was trying his best to come up with a reason we shouldn’t spend half our Saturday picking apples.
But I was determined. And if there’s one thing that’s true about me, it’s that nothing deters me when I’m determined. Just ask anyone who’s been anywhere near me when I’ve decided it was time to clean the garage or assemble furniture or paint the spare bedroom.
I cannot be stopped.
And I was not taking no for an answer this time, either.
It was the first weekend in September, and we were going to pick apples . . . and have fun in the process . . . if it was the last thing we did.
My boys caught on to my mood, or at least they got tired enough to give up, because they finally slipped some shoes on and climbed into the backseat of my car.
The ride to the apple orchard was pleasant enough. Having long since discarded any notion of getting out of this venture, the boys settled into their seats to await their fate.
As we pulled into the parking lot, they perked up a little, craning their necks to see what lay in store for them.
And here’s what they saw, the reason I had pulled them away from their computer and Xbox and friends and pajamas . . .
And . . . drumroll, please . . . more trees.
Zach looked at me like he was dying inside and asked me if this was all there was.
I rolled my eyes (only in my mind, though – I have learned enough about parenting over the years to realize somebody has to be the adult at all times, and – guess what? – that somebody has to me because they sure aren’t able to pull it off) and I told him to give it a chance. We were just getting started.
Being the mellow kid that he is, he just looked at me like I had told him getting a cavity filled would be fun, and he slumped over to look at some goats.
My daughter Rachel and I decided to check out the little store before heading out to the orchard, so I called the boys over and we headed inside. We walked around and sampled apples and looked around at homemade preserves and bags of freshly-picked produce. We bought caramel apples and a little basket to carry our crop of apples home. Everything about the store was charming in the way that only country can be charming.
Rachel and I were in hog heaven (which is a phrase that may not entirely fit this situation; but as there were goats and chickens aplenty, I feel it serves a purpose here).
Once again, Zach asked me if this was all there was.
This time, I groaned. (Again, only in my mind . . . although it came close to slipping out.)
Meanwhile, Sam had already left the store and discovered the joy of feeding his apple cores to the goats. He was thoroughly entertained. He asked if he could go eat more apples so he could feed more cores to more goats, but we had come with a mission in mind to pick our own, so we said bye to the goats and moved on (but not before getting a picture of strange, three-horned goat that looked like the kind that would start talking to us if we had been in Narnia).
Before we reached the orchard, however, we passed a tent where a lady was making kettle corn the good old-fashioned way. She was stirring it up in huge black kettles that could pass as cauldrons (at least, that was my first thought, but then, I happen to know a few people who could use a good cauldron, if you know what I mean).
How could we not stop to buy a bag of that salty-sweet goodness? What God-fearing, warm-blooded American has that kind of self-control?
Let’s just say we are a very warm and God-fearing people.
Half a bag of kettle corn later – and I’m not talking about a little Baggie; I’m talking about a bag about as long as my right leg – we finally made it over to the orchard.
That is where it got real. The nice lady in the industrial apron handed us a couple of paper grocery bags and gave us the run-down on orchard etiquette: taste what you want, pick what you want, bring everything back here to be weighed when you’re done.
Minimum of 20 pounds.
Well, okay, that was a really good price for that many apples, and that was actually what we came out here for, so, although that was a LOT more apples than we had intended to pick, we agreed to the price, took the bags, and marched on toward the rows and rows of trees.
At the risk of being overly sappy, the rest of the afternoon was magical. It was a beautiful time of walking together, finding the best apples together, tasting new kinds of apples together, and having plain and simple fun together.
The kind that doesn’t need plugged in.
We talked, tasted, laughed, and picked the afternoon away until we guessed we had about 20 pounds of apples, and then we headed back to the tent to pay.
I should mention here that I have never been very good at math.
Thirty-five pounds and fifty dollars later, we walked back to our car. Our arms were full of apples, and we were high on sunshine, goats, kettle corn, and fall.
The drive home was beautiful, and I hoped the boys had enjoyed the experience as much I as had. But they’re teenagers, and they’re boys, so sometimes it’s hard to tell.
When we got home, Rachel and I got busy stuffing apples into every available space in the fridge and on the counter. Over the sounds of the Xbox already coming from the living room, we could hear Sam telling my other daughter (who had to work and couldn’t go with us) about the apple orchard.
“It was amazing,” we heard him say, loud and clear.
I had only hoped for “okay,” or “not bad,” or maybe even an “all right.”
Rachel and I just looked at each other and smiled.
I may be eating apples until St. Patrick’s Day, but I would gladly spend $100 and fill my basement with apples to create another memory like the one we created last Saturday.
Because good memories don’t grow on trees, you know.