Atpple-picking Time
I t st.:l) ro Lov r: this season. The wood stacked by the door，
tile ~ang ，，)f\" its sap still speaking of forest. The hay， made，
all g(~ldcn in tile low afternoon light. The rumble of the
appJcs rural)ling into the cellar bins. Smells and sights and sounds
~h.at said this year it would be all right: there d be food and
~avmth fiw the babies by the time the snows came. I used to love
~(~ walk in the apple orchard at this time of the year， to feel the
s(~l} give un(terfoot when I trod on a fallen fruit. Thick， sweet
seems of ro~ting apple and wet wood. This year， the hay stooks
arc tcx~ amt the ~v(~odpilc scant， and neither matters much to me.
l hev/)fought the apl)les yesterday， a cartload for the rectory
cdlar， l，ate pickings， of course: I saw brown spots on more than il
icx~. [ had x~(wds with tb.e carter over it， but he told me we wcrc
iuckx to gct as good as we got， and I suppose it s true enough.
l hcic arc so (ew people to do the picking. So few people to do
anlhing. Xml those of us who :ire left walk around as if we re half
;~slccp. Wc arc all so tired.
I t(~ok :m apple that was crisp aild good and sliced it， thin as
t~at，cr， and carried it into that dim room where he sits， still and
silent， l lis hand is (m the Bible， but he never ()pens it. Not any-
more. I asked him if he d like me to read it to him. tte turned his
hca(I to look at me， and I started. It was the first time he d looked
at mc in days. I d fiwg()tten what his eyes could do--what they
could make us do--when he stared down from the pulpit an~l
held us， (me by one， in his gaze. I/is eyes are the same， but his
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