The
moment I jumped off the tractor the sticky-sweet vapors of
Suncrisp, Macintosh, and Granny Smith wafted through my body as I instinctively closed my eyes, and took a slow, deep breath, turning my face toward the blazing autumn sun.
Without even deliberately trying I was stopped short
by the beauty of my surroundings. As my boots left behind the ethereal dust cloud that formed when I hit the dry, dirt ground, I looked around
and realized that upon first glance there was nothing particularly astounding about where I was. Rows
of trees that had lost the bottom half of their fruit from the eager,
early-in-the-season apple pickers. Overgrown grass threaded through with vines,
ensnaring the unsuspecting, happy-go-lucky people uniformed in chestnut brown riding boots and
plaid button-downs who have decided to spend the day reaching up tree trunks
and weaving themselves in-between branches in hopes of finding that one shiny,
perfect, succulent, unblemished apple. Apple picking is kind of strange when
you think about it, right? So why do we love it?