The limbs no longer tremble with the weight of their scarlet harvest, nor does an errant, whispering wind startle the shivering fledgling from its nest. It is an orchard overgrown. Gone are the youthful voices that once had gathered there atop the apple wagon, bouncing with bold abandon upon its timber bed, while grownups nurtured order, dispensing bags and baskets, all the while instructing in the use of picking-poles. The very air, it seems, has absorbed the laughter of schoolchildren engaged in merry chase through well-mown grassy mazes that opened out beneath the shade at the base of every tree. And here in this plantation, the phantom shapes of family members, loving friends and neighbor folk assemble in the sun-swept hours in praise of this sweet harvest.
Memories here abound.
The drives to see the blossoms, the blooming of the fruit. And through it all the apple wagon remains. A vehicle between then and now. From Chapman to Chekhov, the ideal stays the same - it is noble to plant an orchard. And when the orchard dies, the wagon takes us home.