Ode to Orchards

              

There is a little road that goes by one of the last remaining orchards in my area. From here I parked my car and gingerly crept into the edge of the orchard not to steal any fruit, just to steal a photo or 20. Sadly all the others have faded and closed over the year, their trees in rows becoming twisted but still stubbornly creating fruit. I have long found orchards to be magical places. Perhaps it is because apples play such a part in wonder tales of our youth as disguises for poison and spells or vessels of magic and knowledge. Or perhaps they are magical spaces because many of my most favorite childhood memories are of driving down old forgotten roads to an old forgotten orchard ran by an old man and woman who sold the best apples and pressed cider. But, too, my family is from a tiny town that was once peppered with orchards, relatives once worked seasonally to harvest the ruby ripe apples, or else nicked one on the way home from school. Perhaps it is in my apple red blood. No matter the genesis of my love for apples, cider, orchards, and the fleeting season that bears such lovely fruit, they all continue to hold magical sway over me. This morning a mighty cold front has moved in after a mighty storm and it is a morning for hot mulled cider if ever there was. Autumn is on the breeze, she'll be here in no time. And I'll be ready for her, hot cuppa cider in hand.