Keeping Summer

        It was a beautiful day, glowing in the brightness that only September can bring. The red

 

 and orange dahlias and golden marigolds held their tousled

 heads high, in defiance of the cool evenings. The

 

afternoon sun brought the lingering heat of summer's

 

last gasp. Soon it  would be giving way to autumn. 

 

         Entering the dimly lit barn of the farmer's market, my senses were immediately engulfed by the earthy aroma of produce: garlic, dill, apples, and pumpkins. I inhaled deeply to fully absorb the atmosphere, instantly transported to the days of my youth.

            My earliest recollection of harvest time is my mother canning Royal Anne Cherries on the Fourth of July.  I must have been 3 or 4.

            "We need to put these by," Mama would say, explaining why she wasn't going to the carnival. "Then we'll have our fruit in the winter."

            Later, when I grew older, I worked with other neighborhood kids, picking strawberries at the farm down the road. I can still remember the cool crispness of the June mornings, bicycling my way to the farm, and the wetness of the dew on the berries. We started work at 7 am, and finished around noon. Pick a few, eat a few. The berries warmed as the sun rose higher, thawing our chilled fingers. It was my first real job. At 9, I made enough money to buy a pair of black "leather" cowboy boots. They cost around $8.

            July and August would bring the haying. The rhythmic clang of tractors, cutters and balers permeated the air for days. All the farmers would pray for no rain until all the alfalfa was stowed safely under cover. One wet day could ruin a crop.

            My friends and I were always on hand to help. Bucking bales was hot, dusty work, assigned to the teenage boys. The sweat would run rivers down their bare backs, chaff hanging in their hair. We girls, being smaller and younger, were given lighter tasks. My job was to drive the flatbed around the fields. There was no question of a license. I was only 12, but I could reach the pedals, and turn the manual steering wheel. My value was assured.

            The days prior to Labor Day and the beginning of school, were frenzied: picking and pickling, freezing beans and corn, making blackberry jam. My help was appreciated, and mandatory. The kitchen would be hot, and supper would be sandwiches. The pantry shelves would gradually fill with canned goods. Braids of onions and garlic, and bunches of herbs hung from the rafters. Bins of potatoes and squash were tucked into the corners.

            The culmination of it all was the annual Grange Fair, held the second Saturday in September. Kids showed ponies, dogs, chickens and rabbits. Women displayed their baking, canning and gardening skills, while men gathered to discuss crops and cattle. Local musicians entertained. It was a celebration of food, friendship, community, and a summer's work well done.

            As I left the farm that September day, my basket filled with treasures, I couldn't help feeling nostalgic. The art of "putting by" has been largely lost. We can buy ripe tomatoes in January, and pickles off the market shelf. And who wants to stand in a sweltering kitchen, stirring jam? When there is no need, there is little desire.

Fortunately, there are still those who keep the traditions alive, and available to the rest of us. So, if you can't grow a little garden of your own, visit a local farmers' market and just enjoy the goodness of the earth.

 

Saturday Night in Paradise

The backyard barbecue has always been a large part of summer for our family. Being natives of the rainy Pacific Northwest, we learned from an early age to take advantage of any sunny weekend. This made for some very spontaneous parties. Often put together on a whim, the menu varied incredibly. Sometimes, especially on a Friday evening after work, we would do a “bring your own” scenario. Whoever was hosting the event would provide condiments, chips, a side dish or two, and the barbeque to cook on. Friends and their kids would come over, and bring whatever grill-able meat they happened to have on hand. This ranged from hotdogs, burgers and brats to pork chops, ribs or steak. Strangely enough, chicken didn’t happen that often. These days, the parties are at my daughter and son-in-laws house, and with our crazy schedules, can happen any day of the week. 



When there is actual planning involved, our patio parties are even better. Sometimes a freshly caught salmon or trout, or a couple of smoked chickens. A butterflied leg of lamb marinated for a couple of days and grilled to a medium-rare perfection, was my mother-in-law’s specialty. Pricey, it was a treat usually only she prepared. There would be fresh tossed salad from our garden, pineapple baked beans, homemade pasta or potato salads.
 

Cascade Lake trout on the grill

I admit, I have been known to buy “deli” potato salad and doctor it up to taste more like homemade. Just add a couple of chopped hardboiled eggs, some diced sweet or dill pickle, and a little extra mayo. I never try to pass it off as my own, although I didn’t volunteer the information. If anyone asks, I cop to it. Beverages range from ice tea, soda and milk, to wine coolers and beer. The kids play on the lawn as the sun goes down and the citronella candles are lit. The pungent fragrance of the candles mingles with the aroma of briquettes and barbeque.  Laughter, music and conversation drifted on the breeze, the sounds of Saturday night in paradise.

Grilled Leg of Lamb

1 leg of lamb, boned and butterflied (the meat cutter at your supermarket can do this)

2 cups Italian salad dressing

2 cloves garlic, peeled and crushed

1 package Béarnaise sauce mix, prepared

Trim the excess fat from the lamb, making sure to remove all the “silver skin”. Place in a shallow baking dish. Rub both sides with crushed garlic. Pour the dressing over the meat. Cover and marinate overnight.

Grill over hot coals or gas, turning several times until thickest part of roast is done to medium-rare. Rest for 10 minutes before cutting. Slice thinly across the grain.

Serve with Béarnaise sauce on the side

 

One Sunny Summer - a pony tale

 

My friend Nancy lived with her parents, in a house on her grandfather's farm, where, many years ago, he raised Shetland ponies. At some point, for reasons unknown to us children, he turned five mares and a stallion loose on 120 acres, to graze among the cattle. Apparently, this was the end of the pony-breeding venture.

Over the years, the herd multiplied naturally, and lacking any meaningful human contact, grew completely wild. By the time Nancy and I were twelve, there were nearly fifty little ponies running free on the farm.

Like many girls our age, horses were our passion. We had trail horses that we rode and showed, and were very active in 4-H. At one meeting, our club had a guest speaker who talked about harness training. She showed a film to demonstrate some techniques. We watched, star struck, as beautifully groomed and fitted Shetland ponies, strutted joyfully in front of two-wheeled carts.

I'm not sure which of us thought of it first. It may have been me. It's the sort of thing I would come up with, but Nancy was definitely on board. The idea was for each of us to catch a colt from Grandpa Dunham's herd, and train them to pull a pony cart.

Our first step was to get the barn ready. It was really more of a stable than a barn, consisting of six box stalls, a tack and feed room, hayloft, and a mysterious door called "office". During the winter, Nancy's father used the barn for his pet goats, but being spring, it was unoccupied.

We started with the tack room, which had not been used in years. Cobwebs clung to the single hanging light bulb. When lit, it revealed a floor buried under nearly a foot of debris. Rats or mice had chewed holes in old burlap feed-sacks, spreading the contents everywhere. Some of the grain had even tried to sprout. Baling string and other random trash had accumulated there, too.

Being too young and ignorant to worry about rodent-spread viruses, we grabbed shovels and started to search for the floor. It was a hot and dusty job, but worthwhile, too. Amidst the garbage, we found old horseshoes, halters and other treasures. There was even a complete parade set of silver-studded, black-leather saddle, bridle and breastplate. Fortunately, the oil used to treat the leather didn't taste good to rats. Nancy and I looked at each other and grinned. It was all pony size.

"Gramps was in charge of the Shetland Showdeo, way back when." Nancy told me, referring to the annual 4^th of July celebration. "He made my dad dress up and ride in the parade, until he got too tall."

That made us giggle uncontrollably. Her business-suit-wearing father was not the horsy-type at all. Nancy pointed at the office, "Come on, I'll show you. There's a picture."

We opened the door, almost reverently. We were not supposed to be in there at all. No one else had been in there, either, not in a long time. It was a room the length of two box stalls, but slightly wider. More than an office, it had once been a clubhouse. There was a desk, but also a bar, a couch and a felt-topped card table with chairs. On the walls hung old, black and white photographs of show ponies. A glassed-in case still held trophies and faded ribbons. The desktop held writing paper and pens, and a framed photo of Nancy's dad as a child. A fine layer of dust covered it all. It looked as though the last person to close the door had expected to be back in five minutes.

"Maybe we can clean this up, too," Nancy suggested, "We could set up our stuff in here."

I shook my head, no. It would have felt wrong. The whole enterprise must have been abandoned overnight. Even as a kid, I wondered what had happened. It was something I would never find out. We closed the door on the past, and went back to our chores.

We finished clearing the tack-room, and turned our attention to two stalls. The setup was perfect. Each stall was twelve feet square, with Dutch doors opening into a split-rail corral. Keeping the ponies in the stalls would make the taming job much easier. Direct access to the corral would also help. After spreading a deep layer of straw in each box stall, we were done.

Now we had to get permission from Nancy's parents and grandpa. We chose to follow the path of least resistance, and talk to Gramps first. That proved to be a good decision.

The old man's face lit up when he heard our proposal. "And don't worry about John," he said with a wink, referring to Nancy's dad. "I'll talk to him."

The following Saturday was the beginning of spring break. We would have a full week to devote to taming. We needed to catch our ponies. It was a very simple plan. Just bring the entire herd across most of the property, and drive them into the cattle pen. We would then separate our colts, trap them in one of the small side pens, and release the rest of the herd.

We set out on horseback, pleased to see the herd right away. They were all grazing on the nearest third of the acreage. Separating, we circled behind the ponies. There were four dozen or more, in colors ranging from pure black to pale golden. Nearly half looked young enough to consider. Definitely counting our proverbial chickens, we made our selections. I picked a black yearling with a blaze and four white socks. Nancy chose a palomino filly that appeared about three years old.

Waving our arms and shouting, we spooked the lead stallion, Thunder, into a gallop. The herd followed. This was going to be easy, we thought. The ponies slowed to a jog, and we kept them moving toward the pen. From a distance, we saw Nancy's older brothers at the gate. Her dad was standing atop the loading ramp, watching. As we approached the cattle pen, they opened the gate wide, creating a funnel. Thunder was caught off guard, and dodged right in. About a dozen ponies went with him, the gate slamming shut behind. The rest veered back down the hill at a flat run, Nancy's filly with them.

"At least we got one of them," I commented, immediately regretting my selfish words. "Sorry, I didn't mean that. Want to try again?"

"That's okay," Nancy shook it off. "It's not worth the chase."

We decided on the black one with the socks, and who ever else we could catch. It turned out to be another yearling, this one pure black. After a half-hour of effort, we had managed to separate them from the bunch into a side chute. Sweating and out of breath, we were completely happy. Behind us, Mr. Dunham opened the gate. With a snort and a buck, Thunder led the others out, off to rejoin the rest of the herd. Once the corral was empty, we turned the colts back into the main enclosure. They settled in quickly, and began munching on some alfalfa.

Nancy and I sat on the top rail and watched our ponies, considering what to name them. Having just the right one was very important. There had to be a full name, for shows, and something short and simple, for everyday. It should have some meaning, or be descriptive. Listing genealogy was always good.

"I think Candy was his mother," Nancy mused. "He looks just like her. So, for his show name, he can be 'Candy's Hi Hopes' spelled with an h-i, and I'll call him Pal."

I studied my new pony. In addition to the socks and blaze, he had a crescent shaped white patch on his rump. Otherwise, he was coal black. I tried and rejected several versions of 'Sox' and 'Blaze'. I pictured him clean and brushed, the white marking standing out against the black, his coat shining in the sun.

"Sun Crescent," I announced, forgetting no one had heard my thoughts. "Sunny, for short."

"Shouldn't it be Moon Crescent?" Nancy asked. 

"Sure, but doesn't it sound better?" I shrugged. "I like the name 'Sunny', but with a u, not an o."

We stayed there, watching our ponies until the fading sunlight, and hunger, drove us inside. I had gotten my parents' permission to spend the night at the farm. Nancy and I stayed up late, talking and planning. In our fantasies, we had Pal and Sunny harnessed as a pair, pulling a cart in the Grand Floral Parade. It was easy to get ahead of ourselves.

We were back in the corral early the next morning. Daylight brought a reality check, reminding us that the ponies were still wild as mustangs. When we entered the enclosure, they moved away nervously. Slowly, I walked toward Sunny, speaking softly. His ears twitched, eyes wide, as he watched me approach. I came to within four feet and slowly dropped to sit cross-legged in the soft dirt. This put us nearly eye-to-eye. I crooned and spoke baby talk to the colt, moving as little as possible. I sat like that for what seemed like hours. Finally, Sunny cautiously ambled over, stretched his neck as far as possible, and gave me a sniff. I fought the urge to reach for him, and stayed perfectly still. Cautiously, he sniffed again, and backed off. I had taken the first step to making friends with my pony. Within days, Nancy and I were both able to approach easily, especially with a bucket of grain.

On Thursday, Gramps pulled up in his pickup. He motioned us over. "Take a break and come to the feed store with me," he invited. "You can help me pick up some things.

A trip to West Union Feed & Seed always meant a stop at Larry's diner. It was on the corner where Cornelius Pass crossed West Union Road, across from the feed store and the railroad tracks. The milkshakes there were still handmade, with real ice cream. They used fresh local fruit, when it was in season.

Nancy and I sat on the feed store loading dock and sipped our shakes. Gramps was inside placing his order. I breathed in the wonderful aroma of alfalfa, molasses and cedar chips, and savored the creamy strawberry shake. I watched a red-tailed hawk circle above the filbert orchard across the road. It was paradise on a warm spring day.

"Girls!" Gramps called from within, "Come in here!"

We scampered across the warehouse, into the main store. Here the smells were of saddle soap, leather and sweat. "I was telling Mr. Kaiser what you're up to, and he has something here he thought you could use."

He produced two nylon web halters, small even by pony standards. "They sent me those as display samples, so I can't sell them." Mr. Kaiser said, "You can have them. Maybe they'll fit your ponies for a while."

We were sure that they would, and thanked him profusely.

"You get them ponies halter broke," Gramps told us on the way home. "Then you can move 'em into the barn. Get some real work done. They're tame enough."

Gramps was right. By Saturday, we had the ponies lead-broke. That was supposed to mean they would walk calmly when led. In our case, it meant they could be coaxed and half-dragged in the right direction, without freaking out. That was good enough to make the hundred-yard trek from the cattle pens, to the stable. 

Pal would be the first to go, since he was slightly more compliant. Nancy had the lead-rope in one hand, the grain bucket in the other. Like the carrot before the donkey, she walked with the oats just out of Pal's reach. He followed docilely, only hesitating at the stable doors. Once through those, the grain was enough to coax him into the box stall.

I hoped Sunny would be as easy, but it was not to be. The pony was not interested in the oats. He was too busy looking around. About halfway across the barnyard, he suddenly shrieked and leapt sideways, jerking me off my feet. He pulled me along for several yards before I was able to plant my heels.

Spitting grass, I approached the colt. He stood, quivering, his eyes wide. "What the heck was that all about?"

Sunny was in no mood to let me touch him, so I stood at lead length and looked him over. There was no obvious sign of injury, just a frightened look in his eyes. "Do you think he got stung?" Nancy suggested. "There used to be a hornet's nest up there."

We accepted that as a likely explanation.

Once Sunny settled down, we started toward the stable once again. The next meltdown came at the door. For some reason, stepping into a dark cavern didn't appeal to him. He came to a dead halt just outside, and refused to budge. Though small, Sunny was strong. When he planted his feet, there was no moving him. I cajoled, sweet-talked, coaxed and tried bribery with treats. I turned and walked him away, to circle back. No go. I was nearly sobbing with frustration.

Suddenly, the thunderclap of a cracking whip sent Sunny lunging through the door with me in tow. I looked back, startled to see Gramps standing a few yards away, a stock whip in his hand.

"Gramps!" Nancy scolded, "You scared us!"

"Thought you could use a hand," he stated matter-of-factly, as he turned back toward the house. "Big noise. Works every time."

It was a hard point to argue.

The rest of the school year went quickly. I spent every spare moment at Nancy's farm, working with Sunny. Both ponies were tame as dogs, now. They would walk quietly when led, and trot nice circles on the long line. It was time to start cart training. Now we would need actual equipment. Being twelve, and on a budget of zero, we knew we would have to make do with what was on hand. Fortunately, there was plenty, if we were willing to work for it.

We found two pony carts stashed in the corner of the hay barn, covered in cobwebs. One was a wooden monstrosity, a homemade version of a racing buggy. The wheels stood taller than the ponies' backs. It looked much too cumbersome to deal with. The other was more what we had in mind. It was light aluminum, with a padded seat and rubber tires. Some scrubbing and a bit of paint would take care of it.

That left the matter of the harness itself.  There were all sorts of bits and pieces in the old tack room. We had not discarded anything made from leather. Gramps said we could use anything we wanted, so we got to work. After what seemed like gallons of saddle soap and neat's-foot oil, we had a large pile of supple straps. Following sketches we found in a library book, we literally built two sets of harness from scrap.

The first day of vacation, we harnessed Sunny and Pal for the first time. They were too young to pull a cart, so in the beginning we would "drive" by walking behind.

Trying to remember the little we had actually learned about harness training, we started with Nancy and Pal. I stood at his head, while Nancy got in position behind. Relaxing tension on reins, she clucked at Pal, signaling him to move forward. He dropped his head and looked over his shoulder at her. She clucked again, "Hup, hup!"

Pal stared at her, blankly. "Should I walk forward with him?" I suggested, "Maybe he'll get the idea."

A few of false starts and an hour or so later, he really did seem to be catching on, enough to walk forward and stop on command. A good first day, we agreed. After lunch, it was Sunny's turn.

Sunny wasn't a mean pony. He was actually quite affectionate, as horses go. He was quite high-spirited, though. New experiences were not his favorite thing. As soon as I stepped behind him, his hind leg lashed out, catching me square in the left thigh. I staggered backwards, sitting down hard in the soft paddock dirt. Sunny stood staring at me, nostrils flaring. I winced slightly as I stood. There was a large lump where the little hoof made contact.

Approaching more carefully, I tried again. Speaking softly, I made sure Sunny knew where I was the whole time. This time he flinched when he felt the reins, but didn't kick me. A little coaxing and clucking, and we walked twice around the paddock. Visions of pony carts and parades danced in my head, easily overpowering the throbbing bruise on my thigh. After that day, Sunny got easier. I guess he just decided to trust that I wouldn't hurt him.

I split my time all summer between training Sunny, long rides on my mare, Duchess, and helping my dad rebuild fence. He used to joke that if it weren't for chores, he wouldn't see me at all. That was not far from the truth. The equines ruled.

June and July made way for August, and time to bring the hay in. Nancy and I took turns driving the flatbed while her brothers bucked bales. Gramps stood by, to supervise the unloading. He knew just how he wanted the hay arranged. When the barn was stacked to the rafters, the sun was high in the afternoon sky. It was much too hot to work the ponies, or even clean tack. We went swimming in the irrigation pond instead.

Training was coming along well. Both were calm in the harness, and could even pull a light load, but no carts, yet. Gramps advised against a heavy load for at least six months. The colts were still young, their bones developing. Since we didn't know their exact ages, it was better to be careful.

Labor Day weekend brought the end of vacation, and the Skyline Harvest Fair, a local tradition for decades. The main floor of the historic Grange Hall was filled with arts, crafts and textiles. The basement held the garden and food exhibits, and the kitchen. Starting with a pancake breakfast on Saturday, and ending with a spaghetti potluck on Labor Day, there was always good food. Outside there would be 4-H dog, sheep and cattle shows on Saturday. Horseshoe pitching and bingo games went on continually.

All of this was fun, but Nancy and I were really only interested in the horseshow. That was Sunday and Monday. We planned to show Duchess and Rocky in trail class and horsemanship on one day, Sunny and Pal in showmanship the next. None of our 4-H friends had seen the ponies yet. It had been our surprisingly well-kept secret.

As soon as we arrived, the girls from our club came over. They all knew about the wild herd, and were impressed by our progress. We showed them pictures of the ponies, still looking like scruffy mini-mustangs. Now they stood, bathed and brushed, ebony coats gleaming in the sunlight. When others wanted to pet them, both ponies stood patiently, loving the attention. Even Angela Peters, who rarely had a nice comment, had to admit we had done a good job. 

After some final primping, I stepped back and looked Sunny over. Showmanship was based on how well the animal had been cared for and presented. Not a fleck of dust marred the shiny coat or the flowing mane. Hooves blacked to a high sheen, contrasted with the snow-white socks.

Sunny behaved well in the show ring. He stood quietly for inspection, and only balked a little when we were asked to walk out and trot back. I was pleased with our routine, even though we didn't finish in the top five.

Nancy and Pal didn't place either, but she shared my enthusiasm. We hadn't expected to win. The day before, we got a ribbon each in trail, and Nancy got an Honorable Mention in horsemanship. Our awards were historically in the middle of the pack, and we were okay with that. It was all about being there.

School started the next day, and with it the usual fall activities. We were in junior high, now, and more homework meant less time to spend with my four-hoofed friends. When I got to the farm on the weekend, Nancy met me at the barn. Her dad said we needed to move the ponies by the end of the month. Cold weather was coming, and he would need the stalls for his goats.

For Nancy, it was no problem. She could simply move to the small pasture that housed Rocky. The little barn that stood there was big enough for two. Pal might be a bit harder to catch on two acres than in a corral, but it would work. My parents, on the other hand, were not thrilled about another horse, no matter how small. That was a problem I had not considered. I had to find a place for Sunny, or turn him loose again, to rejoin the herd. The thought of doing that made me cringe. I didn't know what to do.

With only a few days left before goat-day, Grandpa Dunham brought me the answer. He said there was a woman interested in buying Sunny. Her little girl had seen him at the fair, and wouldn't stop talking about him. They would be over that afternoon to work out the details. He asked my opinion, even though he didn't need to. Technically, Sunny was his property. I choked down a lump in my throat, and asked if I could meet the people.

I liked them immediately, although I was prepared not to. Mrs. Morgan was a vet, specializing in large animals. Her daughter Molly was seven, and as horse-crazy as I was. A huge smile lit her face when she saw the pony. She approached him slowly, but confidently, speaking in a low voice. I felt good. This was no spoiled rich kid with a whim. She would give Sunny the attention he deserved, even more than I could.

"He's just green-broke," I told her. "He's never been ridden, I'm too big, but he halters and drives. You could try a cart soon."

"You're light enough," Gramps nodded, "and you'll be riding him in a couple of months."

Molly didn't care about any of that. Her arms were around his neck and she whispered into the pony's ear. She wore the familiar expression of horse obsession. I was a little jealous that Sunny had bonded with her so easily, but I was glad, too. I swallowed another lump, and blinked back the tears as I watched the trailer pull away.

That was the end of my interest in harness training. Nancy continued for a few more months, but then we both went on to other projects. That was over thirty years ago. As far as I know, Sunny and Pal were the last trained ponies to come from the herd on Grandpa Dunham's farm.

 

The Apple Grove

At the west end of Springville road, two fields from the end, on a derelict farm, stood a grove of apple trees. There were a dozen or so, scattered in no apparent order across an acre of land. This was what remained of an orchard, devastated in the Columbus Day storm of 1962. The ripe apples were a pale gold, almost white, deliciously juicy, and sweet as honey. Neglected for years, they were there for the picking. It was one of our favorite places.

We were inseparable the summer we were ten, BeckySue and I. And, like many girls growing up in rural America in the mid-seventies, we spent most of our free time on horseback. Nearly every morning during summer vacation, I’d ride down to Becky’s house. We’d plan our day’s adventure while Becky saddled her pony. Sometimes we’d ride up the power company right-of-way, a steep climb of about three miles. From there, we’d follow old fire lanes back through Forest Park. Other days we might set up poles and barrels in the pasture, and practice our gaming. We dreamt of rodeo glory under arena lights. More often than not, we would just meander on down Springville to the old farm.

The road flowed gently west between orchards and grain fields, blackberry thickets and lone houses. At the edge of our apple grove there was an ancient fence. We’d turn and follow the fence line, past the abandoned farmhouse, between the apple trees. An old pole gate opened into a fifty-acre forest. We spent countless hours there, exploring the woods until we knew every inch, riding deer trails, or simply sitting on a fallen log and talking, sharing plans and dreams. The dimpled sunlight filtered through the branches, creating a fantasy world for make-believe. Our ponies would stand, contentedly nibbling the tall grass at the edge of the trees. Patiently, we watched the apples, waiting for them to ripen.

When we got tired of playing in the woods, we could ride through to the other side and take the tractor path across a wide field. Two roads crossed there, and an old country store sat at the intersection. We could usually scrape together enough change to get cokes, or a candy bar.

One July day, Becky and I pulled weeds for her grandma, and she paid us a dollar each. We felt rich when we entered the cool, dark of the store. We each got a grape soda, a pepperoni stick and a snickers bar. As we loitered outside, Becky noticed the flyer. The headline read:

NOTICE OF PROPOSED DEVELOPMENT

              We knew what those words could mean for us. We had seen these signs before, when they built the Portland Community College campus. Three of “our” fields had gone away that time. We stared at the diagram, trying to make some sense of the map. It looked like the whole farm would be wiped out. We had not known the woods were part of the same property as the orchard. There were never any people around, so we just never thought about it. We were certain of one thing, though. We could not let this happen.

Within days, white-topped wooden markers appeared on the farm. This put us into a minor panic. The best plan our ten-year-old brains could come up with was to pull up those survey stakes. We tied our ponies and stealthily walked the property, pulling as we went. It hadn’t occurred to us that we were vandalizing someone’s property, never mind breaking the law. To us, the farm was a sacred thing, and we were stubbornly dedicated to saving it. How dare anyone try to bulldoze it! Feeling rather like crusaders, we hid the little pile of lumber, neatly stacked, inside a blackberry thicket.

When taller white stakes, flagged this time, replaced the missing ones, we pulled those, too. Amazingly, we never encountered a survey crew. It seemed that the flags grew of their own accord. After removing survey markers three times, and watching them reappear, we realized two things: the battle was futile, and we were running an increasing risk of being caught. Becky and I decided it was best to leave well enough alone. New notices were posted: construction of the Shopping Center would begin October first.

That gave us the rest of the summer, and we made the most of it. The grass in the rich soil of the apple grove grew thigh-high. Lush and green, the perfect place for picnics and secret forts. With the Montreal Olympics fresh in our minds, we used the pilfered survey stakes to build a cross-country jump course. Racing through the woods, the fern fronds whipping our ponies’ legs, we pretended to ride for team USA. Our miniature “hunters” sailed effortlessly over the eighteen inch “fences”. We dreamed of shining gold medals.

As summer waned, the apples ripened. White survey flags now fluttered undisturbed around the perimeter of the property. Labor Day came and went and school started. BeckySue and I didn’t get back to the farm for several weeks. On the last Saturday in September, we set out early. We knew it would be our last trip to the apple grove. It was a glorious fall day, the kind where the colors are so intense, they make your eyes hurt. Where you need a flannel shirt at eleven a.m, and regret wearing it by one.

Our orchard was absolutely golden, the trees dripping apples. We each carried an old pillowcase to hold the bounty. Gently we filled our bags, taking care to choose only un-bruised fruit. My mother had promised to make applesauce and bake pies. This final harvest would not go to waste.  

When the pillowcases were full, we stashed them in a cool spot by the fence and rode to the little store. To make the ride last, we took the long way, following alongside the road. The smell of hot asphalt rippled on the heat waves, the ponies’ hooves raising puffs of dust with each step. Grasshoppers chirped and leapt out of the way. We were hot and thirsty when we reached the store. Sitting with our ponies in the shady grass, we ate a lunch of Dr. Pepper and Twinkies.  

We decided to go back through the woods, completing the loop. As we crossed the field, Becky and I glanced at each other. We were approaching the opening to the deer trail. Almost in unison, we broke into a gallop, racing for the obstacle course. I took the lead by about a pony length. We zigzagged through the trees at full velocity, much too fast for the terrain. Rounding the last bend, I barely saw a large branch blocking the trail, about three feet above the ground. With nowhere else to go, we were immediately airborne. I grabbed for a handful of mane, and missed. My chin bounced on the pony’s head. Hanging with both arms around Frisky’s neck, I managed to yell, “Watch out!” to Becky.

Too late, she was already in mid-air. Landing hard, but essentially undamaged, we sat there giggling in amazed relief. “Now that’s a jump!” Becky declared. “But we both loose a couple of points for form!”

It was a fitting end to our excellent summer. Still laughing, we tied the bags of apples to our saddle horns, and turned for home.

The apple grove has since disappeared under a layer of progress; even Springville Road has changed its path. The wheat and barley fields have given way to suburban neighborhoods.

 “That used to be a grove of apple trees…” I say to my children, waving a hand in the general direction. I start to describe it, and then stop. All they can see are acres of houses, and streets with street lamps. The trees are birch of identical size, perfectly spaced along the sidewalks. They can’t picture the farmland of the past. I smile as I remember. “And a long time ago, this all used to be a farm.”

Carmel Apple Upside-Down Cake       Heat oven to 350°
1 package spice cake mix

4-6 large apples, peeled, cored and sliced

6 tbsp. butter

¾ cup brown sugar

Grease the bottom of a 9x13 baking dish with 1 tbsp butter. Sprinkle ¼ cup brown sugar evenly over the butter and set aside.

Melt the rest of the butter in a heavy, non-stick skillet. Keep the heat at medium. Add the apples, turning to coat. Cover and reduce heat slightly. Be patient and don’t let the fruit scorch. When the apples have softened, arrange in a single layer in the baking dish. Drizzle the butter over the slices. Sprinkle the remaining brown sugar over the apples.

Prepare cake mix according to package directions. Pour the batter over the layer of apples. Bake at 350° for 35 to 40 minutes, until toothpick comes out clean. Cool no more than 5 minutes before turning pan onto serving platter. If it cools too much, the cake may be difficult to remove from the pan.

Serve at room temperature. Top each serving with whipped cream.