The Orchard

Two orchards stood on our farm. One we called the old orchard. This one held apple and pear trees that had gone unpruned for many years. The fruit that they yielded was consistently gnarled and wormy. We seldom went in among those trees because there was a multitude of thorns that grew with a great fierceness. Of the 100 acres on the farm, this seemed to be the only area that was left untended. However, on the far edge of the old orchard was a lovely spring that came out of the ground with sparkling water. My sister, Virginia, once tried to tame the area and weeded around the spring and planted seeds to encourage new growth of attractive flowers. It did take on new form for a season, but the wild vegetation was too much for her, and the thorns reclaimed the spring.

The other orchard sat on a rolling knoll just past our back yard. This orchard consisted of a small grape vineyard, several different kinds of apple trees, two pear trees, and the prettiest little cherry tree. The trees were pruned, and the grass was kept mowed around each one. In the springtime, the smell of the orchard was heavenly. The blossoms of the cherry, apple, and pear trees sent a fresh sweet aroma that announced another booming crop would soon be on the way.

It was here that our family enjoyed many picnics and extended family get-togethers. When I was very little, Daddy built a cinder block fire pit and from that moment on that fire pit was put to good use. Mom’s family reunions were held in our orchard and Daddy would barbeque the best barbequed chicken around. His secret marinade recipe was envied by everyone. As the reunions would fade into the evening hours, adults, as well as the children would sit around the fire pit and roast marshmallows on twigs cut from the apple trees.

In the winter, Daddy would tap the maple trees that lined our road and put frozen buckets of maple sap in a huge pan on the fire pit to cook all day. As the iced sap would melt and eventually start boiling, Daddy would add dozens of egg whites to the liquid. I liked to watch the egg whites start to cook and mysteriously turn to a very dirty froth of debris and impurities. These impurities would be allowed to cook for sometime before they were skimmed away and more egg whites would be added. I am not sure how Daddy knew that the syrup was done, but by the time he started to pour the liquid into jars, it had become a beautiful see-through auburn color. My mouth would water just to think of that sweet syrup over Mom’s pancakes.

And what pancakes we had! Many Saturday or Sunday mornings, or especially when we were entertaining out of town guests, Daddy would take the pancake griddle up to the orchard and put it on top of the fire pit. Mom would stir up a batch of her famous pancakes and we would all gather at the picnic table for pancakes, eggs, bacon, and hot maple syrup. For an added treat, we would have strawberry shortcake, fresh from the morning garden, for dessert.

When Daddy’s long-lost sisters from New York City realized their little brother had a “mansion” in the country, they started making our home their summer retreat. Aunt Mary’s husband, Uncle Bill, was a department store window decorator. In contrast to Aunt Mary, Uncle Bill was a worker and truly enjoyed helping around the farm, even though he was not familiar with farm chores. He tried milking a cow once, but gave that up very quickly.

We were little when Daddy decided to get rid of the chickens; he cleaned out the chicken coop, pulled it up to the orchard, and made it into a playhouse for us kids. Uncle Bill heard about the new playhouse, and he saw his opportunity to put his expertise to work on the farm. On his trip to the farm that summer, he brought a car full of corrugated paper that he put up around the entire inside of the chicken coop. Instantly, we had red bricks and a fireplace that looked like it had real fire. We had a bookcase that looked so real I thought I could actually grab onto the book of Peter Pan.

Virginia, Rodney, and I played house and read books throughout the summer and fall in that playhouse. Many summer nights would find us lying on old quilts listening to the branches of the old apple tree brush on the tin roof. These were peaceful times for me, snuggled up with my big sister enjoying her read to me or tell me a story as I drifted off to sleep. One night, however, my brother Rodney was very disgruntled with me and was determined that only he would spend the night with Virginia. He insisted on telling the story that night…and what a story it was! I remember vivid vampires and wolves gnawing on someone’s leg, but the more Rodney spun his tale of horror, the more frightened he appeared to be. Even with Virginia’s protective arm around me, I was hearing noises outside that made me sure that Rodney’s story had conjured up something really terrible. It was quite a surprise for both Virginia and me, as Rodney, in mid-sentence, abruptly bolted out of the playhouse and at top speed flew to the house and the safety of Mom and Daddy. It was some time before Virginia let him live that one down.

It was in this same orchard where I smoked my first and last cigarette. A girl I knew at school had given me one and dared me to smoke it. I told her I would when I got home, and as soon as Mom left for a quick trip to the neighbor’s house, I ran to the orchard, scurried up the green apple tree, and lit up. I was not real impressed with the first puff, so I thought I would cut the bad taste with a bite of an apple that was not quite ripe. The tartness of the apple didn’t really take the bad taste away, but filled my mouth with a puckering nicotine flavor. I figured after a few more puffs, the taste would get better. So one puff, one bite of apple; another puff, another bite. I don’t remember if I finished either the cigarette or the apple, but somewhere in between puffs and bites, I almost fell out of the tree vomiting. I swore I would never smoke another cigarette again.

My Aunt Marolyn and Cousin Sharon came one time for a week of camping in the orchard. They were “courting” the neighbor boys at the time and so it was convenient for the four of them to sit around the campfire at night and “get to know each other better.” They later married these boys and I like to think they all fell in love in our orchard.

Yes, our orchard was an active place. A place where family gathered, cousins played badminton and croquet, uncles played horseshoes, aunts and grandma visited. It could also be a quiet place to take a blanket and curl up with a good book under any one of the trees.

I visited that orchard last year; it has changed. Many of the trees are gone; the playhouse with the big apple tree’s limbs hanging over it as if to protect those within…all gone now. But the memories of that orchard still play a great symphony in the recesses of my brain, and no one can ever take that away.

© June 23, 2008
Judy Watters