Cortlands and Memories

I love the fall.

Autumn, with its cool days, leaves of bronze and red and gold, energizes me.  I love the color of the sky.  I love to smell the leaves burning, and the wood fires in someone's backyard or from the neighbor's wood stove. I love the big grapevine wreath on my front door.  I love the comfort foods of fall--stews and casseroles, turkey and pot roast. And the vegetables of fall!  Squashes of so many varieties, carrots and turnips, rutabagas and pumpkins. And the fruits! Cranberries, pears, grapes and my favorite--apples.

I used to love the football games and the long walk home with friends.  Sometimes the moon was so big it seemed to fill the sky.  The sounds of the band echoed in my ears--the French horns, the tuba, the trombones and my favorite horn, the saxophone.  I loved the costumes the twirlers wore with their bright sequins, and the tall hat of the drum major.  I loved it all.

It was brought back in a rush today by, of all things, a Cortland apple.

I enjoy apples, though the local Macintosh is not among my favorites to chomp while trying to stave off hunger.  The Cortland, however, always was.  A few years ago I began to eat Galas, Braeburns and Honeycrisp--neglecting the old favorite.  When my friend gave me some I had full intention of making applesauce, but I didn't have any fruit for lunch.  So I packed a Cortland.

It took one bite, the tangy-sweet juice dripping on my shirt.  Aaahhh, the memories came back in a flash.

Dad used to bring home apples often.  He would buy an eight quart basket or even a bushel and put them in the middle of the kitchen table.  Mom knew without a doubt that Dad was expecting apple dumplings for dessert, chunky applesauce with brown sugar and cinnamon for his toast, maybe an apple cake a few days later. And of course, there was an apple in every pocket for munching.

Dad hardly ever brought apples to my door, or if he did, it would be a quart basket.  It was accompanied by tomatoes or cucumbers; grapes, perhaps, maybe a squash. Sometimes amongst the produce I would find a special little pumpkin, a pie pumpkin--never a jack o' lantern.

Dad knew that I would cut and cook the pumpkin, blend the eggs and spices, make a hand-rolled crust and present him with a fresh pumpkin pie.  Yes, my sons, there was a time when I liked to do that sort of thing.  Dad's grin would be a mile wide when I took the pie to him.  He always cut a slice right away, savoring and grinning over every bite.  How I loved that smile!  Never in my presence would he pile whipped cream on top like Mom and Grandpa did.  Nope, he wanted to taste every morsel.

Another bite, another memory.

The apples made me remember the Cider Mill, a well-loved institution that cousins had started decades ago.  It seemed everybody in the county knew Fuhrmann's, the best cider around.  I remember walking there to get cider for a fall party at my friend's house, and how heavy the jugs were on the way home.

Which, of course, made me remember the parties in her basement, the corner dark for slow dancing until  her father came down the stairs. The night Charlie put his elbow in the chip dip, the night I met my date for the dinner dance,  the big cans of Charles Chips, the tub full of ice and cold drinks.  A couple of times we divided into groups, each with a list, running and laughing around the neighborhood for a scavenger hunt, trading this for that until our lists were finished. Can you imagine a group of party-happy teens coming to your door in the dark, asking for a flat bicycle tire or a brick?  The police today would thoroughly enjoy rounding up such trouble-makers!

Life was good then, fun and innocent.  We understood the words to the music and moved to its beat. We danced and sang--yes, even me with my cat-in-heat voice, We didn't count calories, we didn't smoke in front of our parents.  We whispered to our friends about our latest crush.

 And, of course, we bobbed for apples--Cortlands, as I recall.

It takes only a small thing to tap into the resources of my brain.  As I move ahead, I sometimes try to block some things from the forefront. Always, always, something will jog it to my consciousness, even the stuff I want to forget. Yes, I remember what caused the tiny scar on my wrist and my side and my forehead.  Yes, I recall being accused of stealing a loaf of bread (no, I didn't, Pete). I remember a lot of the hurts and a lot more of the laughter.

I am right now finishing another of those Cortlands, and I thank my friend and the farmer--not just for the fruit, but for the delicious memories as well.