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.
The main garden has only been in for a week or so. The plants that came in from Jordan's school fund raiser were healthy and strong, and have been growing rapidly. As always, I'm impatient for results. We moved the garden this year, from the planter boxes in the back to the un-used flower bed in front of the house. It's not a large space, but it will get all day southern exposure. Soon, there will be flowers on the tomatoes, peppers and squash.
1 carrot, thinly sliced
