On the Island property there is an antique apple tree. I don’t know what sort of apples they are, but they looked like red jewels in the fall sunlight from mom’s house. After the extension cord debacle, mom and I went and picked 30 pounds of them. She couldn’t find a regular ladder and so I used the kitchen step stool to reach into its heights. In handing each apple to her, I was mindful of our hands touching in much the same way I was mindful of the really listening to my dad’s stories in the years before he died. Mom’s stories are a very different thing than dad’s were. I want to remember the peaceful moments, the times of ease and harmony.
I’m turning most of the fruit I brought home into apple butter in the crock pot. It’s a wonderful first full day of fall sort of thing to be doing. The house smells amazing