tales from two orchards

On a recent, crisply beautiful (if windy) Saturday, J and I headed west (of Boston) to go apple picking with some friends. We went last year and had a blast – and this year was just as much fun. We came home with a bulging bag of apples, half a gallon of fresh apple cider and a couple dozen photos – because I can’t resist taking photos of apple orchards, or of my friends:

As so often happens for me, our experience called to mind something I’d read in a book – in this case, a passage from The Story Girl by L.M. Montgomery:

October was a busy month on the hill farms. The apples had to be picked, and this work fell mainly to us children. We stayed home from school to do it. […]

Some of the apples had to be picked very carefully. But with others it did not matter; we boys would climb the trees and shake the apples down until the girls shrieked for mercy. The days were crisp and mellow, with warm sunshine and a tang of frost in the air, mingled with the woodsy odours of the withering grasses. The hens and turkeys prowled about, pecking at windfalls, and Pat [the cat] made mad rushes at them amid the fallen leaves. The world beyond the orchard was in a royal magnificence of colouring, under the vivid blue autumn sky. The big willow by the gate was a splendid golden dome, and the maples that were scattered through the spruce grove waved blood-red banners over the sombre cone-bearers.

Sigh. Doesn’t that sound like perfection?

Our excursion wasn’t quite that magical, but with good friends, laughter around a picnic table, and two long, leisurely strolls through the rows (one before lunch, one after), filling our bags and soaking up the beautiful day and each other’s company, it was pretty close.

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