Me and them Jane gals were all giddy with excitement to visit the apple orchard in hopes of handpicking some crispity, crunchety goodness last weekend. So as soon as Mama Jane returned home from a long day at the learnatorium, we scooted ourselves on down to the Anderson orchard to do just that. During the car ride, the three of us exchanged thoughts on our favorite apples and took bets on who we thought would collect the most apples from the orchard trees. “I can taste those sweet, sweet Jonagolds even now,” I cried. We even sang songs about apples with the car windows rolled down for the whole world to hear. We simply could not hide our unabashed zeal for apples. Then just as we were finishing a dramatic retelling of the legend of Johnny Appleseed, we found ourselves pulling into the long gravel driveway that led to the heart of the orchard.
“Weeee’re heeeeere!” we shouted with elation. But as we surveyed the acres and acres of orchard in sheer wonder, we couldn’t help but notice that beneath their shroud of leaves, the branches of the trees appeared somewhat barren. Perhaps it was only our perspective. After all, we were a fair distance from the trees at this juncture. And yet, no other visitors to the orchard seemed to be amongst the trees picking apples of their own. Curious. Nevertheless, we exited the car and made our way to the concession stand to claim our apple picking passes.
“May I help you?” asked the kindly woman behind the counter.
“Please,” I replied, “could you tell me how my ladies and I would go about picking our own apples from your lush, majestic orchard?”
“Oh, I’m afraid our trees have already been picked clean for the season,” she answered. “We had an early growing season this year. Unfortunately, it’s not up to us. Mother Nature is in charge.”
Well, I wouldn’t hear of it. I immediately demanded to speak to this presumed matriarch of the family. I wanted answers, but my demands were merely met by puzzled stares and the chirping of crickets. I guess this Ms. Nature was busy and couldn’t be bothered with my invasive questioning. The Jane gals assured me that our journey to the orchard would not be wasted, and that we should just take a walk through the orchard enjoying our time among the trees together. I reluctantly relinquished my hostility toward the orchard personnel and their mother with the hope of bringing peaceful resolution to the situation. We walked away, enjoyed the orchard, collected dried corn remnants from the outskirts of the magnificent corn maze, selected a peck of fujis and a gallon of cider, and mangled our gums on a decadent caramel apple.
Did the afternoon turn out exactly as we had planned? Of course not, but the Jane gals and myself had embarked on this adventure together and at the end of the day we had apples, a tiny pumpkin, and a possibly-stolen corn cob. But most importantly, we had one another. And isn’t that what’s important. I guess that’s why we always have to keep our plans loosey goosey and expect the unexpected. After all, “you want to make God laugh? Make a plan. Or read him a Dave Berry book.”
Thank you, Tracy Jordan…
Thank you.
