Apple Orchards
Late October. Rain has taken a pause and the sun is out. November is less than a week away.
And I have an opportunity to make a quick trip to Beckwith’s Apple Orchard in Kent, Ohio.
Lucky me. Only two other patrons are in the store. Clearly, we have missed the “peak” season for going to Beckwith’s for pumpkins, apples, cider, and fall season gifts. That’s just fine, since I’m still masking and proceeding into stores with (pandemic) caution.
I roam. Pick up a quarter peck of Fuji apples. Grab a sour apple/caramel lollipop. Snag 2 gallons of apple cider. I’ll take the cider (and my homemade chocolate chip cookies) to the poetry reading that I’m giving (with fellow poet Karen Schubert) on October 29 at the Trumbull Art Gallery (TAG) in Warren—just about 4 miles from the town where I grew up.
If any cider remains after our reading, I’ll bring it home—heat it in a crock pot—and serve it with Fireball (cinnamon whiskey) to any neighbors who come to our Man Cave to watch the Cleveland Browns play the Pittsburgh Steelers on Sunday afternoon.
This is the luxury of a fall weekday in Ohio. It’s that deep breath between summertime hot and wintertime cold. Between the rush of vacations/back-to-school and the rush of holidays. Between short sleeves and layers upon layers of clothes. My sense is that communities of people across America are visiting local apple orchards—buying apples, apple pies, apple tarts, apple cider—and finding ways to appreciate the beautiful calmness of a simple life.
