Last Monday Fellow Traveler -- who has been my nursemaid, activity director and amateur therapist during my recent time of trial -- persuaded me to go for a ride around the countryside. We drove around my old neighborhood, past the 40 acres of pasture and hayfield, a few miles down the road from my childhood home, that my family used to own. I pointed out the pair of gnarled, half-dead snow apple trees out in the middle of the hayfield, and noted that my grandparents had planted them sometime back in the 'teens.
I've always liked being around apple trees...enjoying their motherly silhouettes against back yards and farm fields, sitting under them on a hot summer day, climbing the low-hanging limbs, watching the everchanging assortment of birds that like them too.
Here is a poem by Wendell Berry, about apple trees.
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