Apples to Apples
Birthdays - Relentless. And since numbers don't always make for a memorable perspective, I'll take a shot at an image instead. This one, from a true story.
I grew up on a farm. Our water came from a spring that flowed out of a limestone bluff about 75 yards from the house. In fact, that two inch column of iron-free life-pulse was the primary motivation for the original homeowner's choice of location. That was 1833. Back then, a fully enclosed brick springhouse was built with stone steps down to the little stream so water could be bucket-fetched to the house. There was a limestone ledge just above the water level so cans of milk and tubs of butter could be 'refrigerated.' Our mid 20th Century upgrade was a concrete reservoir and a pump. And until sometime in my college years, that was the home's single and sufficient supply.
That made function a priority. The Charge Master of that and many necessities was Rabbit. Rabbit and his wife, Lilly lived on the farm and cared for us for over 23 years. They were childless - in biology only, considering the regard the four of us kids had for them.
My apprenticeship began immediately, at age three. There were fences to mend, horses to shoe, stalls to clean, a garden to plow (with mules named Laura and Eda) and countless trips to places like the Co-Op, Anderson's Hay Barn, and Miss Maggie Duke's Store for an RC and Moon Pie. I was allowed to believe myself essential to all things agricultural by the time I turned five. I was pretty sure school wouldn't be necessary.
On one particular fall day, somewhere between my 4th and 7th year, Rabbit and I were at the springhouse making some repairs to the wooden door jam. The cool, damp environment is pleasant but accelerates decay. We took a break and ate an apple apeice. When I got finished, I took a rock, scratched out a deep divot and planted the core. It actually sprouted, and I remember watching it grow over the years.
Yesterday, on my birthday, I took a walk. And since I still live on a five-acre remnant of the old farm, I set my sights on the old springhouse, which is no longer on our property. As I got closer, I noticed a void in the landscape. The apple tree was down - from the base. Judging from the rotted roots and lack of disturbed earth, it had been dying for some time. I looked along the prone trunk. It had made it to 18 or 20 feet in height, probably four feet in girth, and supported a half mile of branches. But what it shouted was my age. Not in numbers, but in the reality that I have now outlived a tree. Woah. I cracked the shell of a door to the springhouse. The musty smell of the cool, damp spring was unchanged - as was the two inch stream.
The surge of memories of Rabbit and childhood was knee-weakening. But I was reminded of the multiple bonuses of marriage, kids, and experiences that could only have happened by leaving the apple tree in it's spot and moving on.
I grew up on a farm. Our water came from a spring that flowed out of a limestone bluff about 75 yards from the house. In fact, that two inch column of iron-free life-pulse was the primary motivation for the original homeowner's choice of location. That was 1833. Back then, a fully enclosed brick springhouse was built with stone steps down to the little stream so water could be bucket-fetched to the house. There was a limestone ledge just above the water level so cans of milk and tubs of butter could be 'refrigerated.' Our mid 20th Century upgrade was a concrete reservoir and a pump. And until sometime in my college years, that was the home's single and sufficient supply.
That made function a priority. The Charge Master of that and many necessities was Rabbit. Rabbit and his wife, Lilly lived on the farm and cared for us for over 23 years. They were childless - in biology only, considering the regard the four of us kids had for them.
My apprenticeship began immediately, at age three. There were fences to mend, horses to shoe, stalls to clean, a garden to plow (with mules named Laura and Eda) and countless trips to places like the Co-Op, Anderson's Hay Barn, and Miss Maggie Duke's Store for an RC and Moon Pie. I was allowed to believe myself essential to all things agricultural by the time I turned five. I was pretty sure school wouldn't be necessary.
On one particular fall day, somewhere between my 4th and 7th year, Rabbit and I were at the springhouse making some repairs to the wooden door jam. The cool, damp environment is pleasant but accelerates decay. We took a break and ate an apple apeice. When I got finished, I took a rock, scratched out a deep divot and planted the core. It actually sprouted, and I remember watching it grow over the years.
Yesterday, on my birthday, I took a walk. And since I still live on a five-acre remnant of the old farm, I set my sights on the old springhouse, which is no longer on our property. As I got closer, I noticed a void in the landscape. The apple tree was down - from the base. Judging from the rotted roots and lack of disturbed earth, it had been dying for some time. I looked along the prone trunk. It had made it to 18 or 20 feet in height, probably four feet in girth, and supported a half mile of branches. But what it shouted was my age. Not in numbers, but in the reality that I have now outlived a tree. Woah. I cracked the shell of a door to the springhouse. The musty smell of the cool, damp spring was unchanged - as was the two inch stream.
The surge of memories of Rabbit and childhood was knee-weakening. But I was reminded of the multiple bonuses of marriage, kids, and experiences that could only have happened by leaving the apple tree in it's spot and moving on.
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