THE APPLES OF MY EYE
[Our dog would doze in spring sunlight, amidst the white fluff, which would breeze-borne cover her till only her nose was still visible.]
The people who bought the house after we left almost certainly considered chopping down the tree. Fruit trees are so old hat, you know.
The modern Dutch villager despises such unclean and useless clutterings.
Their parents and grandparents planted fruit trees all over the place, relishing the yearly offerings. The children and grandchildren get rid of them, because after all it is so much more up-to-date to purchase fresh fruit from a nice clean supermarket.
Such people also dock the tails of their dogs.
It’s the modern thing to do.
The crop that our apple tree yielded made excellent apple sauce, and had I known at that time how to make pies, I am sure that they would have been memorable. Firm fruit, dense and textural, that would have stood up well.
The apples that one buys at the store are not even half as good.
[But the apple turn-overs and apple pastries made by the local baker were excellent. Yeast-dough, oven set ablaze while it was still dark, and arthritic hands kneading and rolling. We had his pastries every Sunday.
Yes, I fondly remember his hands. Lovely.]
The one thing that tastes sweeter than the apples that grow behind your own dwelling are, naturally, the apples on someone else’s property.
Consider it a tax levied by the neighborhood.
Even adults would, if sufficiently tempted, raid someone else’s yard.
Who can resist such beautiful fruits?
They make each autumn glow.
It’s an aesthetic thing.
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