Apples in Autumn

Seated with five other writers around a dining table, I sip my cup of tea and listen as someone reads a poem titled Ripeness by Jane Hirschfield. It is the first of October and our senses are filled with the crisp fall air, the colors of leaves turning, and the smells of harvest perfuming the air. Then we write. I set my cup down carefully, pick up my favorite pen with its cushy grip and push aside the habit of wondering what the heck I will write. I let the pen have its way.

What emerged was the following sketch of a grandfather with his grandchildren. The first seven words belong to Jane Hirschfield. The rest are mine.

APPLES IN AUTUMN

Ripeness is what falls away with ease like the peel of an apple falling in one continuous spiral from the hands of my grandfather. He took pride in his ability to carve a continuous peel and my brother and I watched him closely when he began. He would slide the knife slowly, deliberately, and then suddenly he would jerk and say “Oops!” He’d freeze, purse his lips, and take stock of the situation. We held our breath thinking it had broken.

With the merest hint of a smile in his eyes he would snap a look at us as we stared open mouthed, intent on the outcome. Then he’d burst out in that gravelly laugh that came from too many years of chewing tobacco - or was it from breathing the prairie dust during long summers of bailing hay. No matter. What mattered now was the apple peel. He started the ring again, tongue tucked between his lips in concentration.

That’s how I remember him even today. Eyes focused on the apple, hands deftly carving their sculpture, tongue tucked between his teeth as my brother and I watch for the peel to fall to the floor like a wriggly red snake.