The Apple Wars

The apple epoch began with a choice to save money, the same choice my dad would make every single time if given the chance. A simple ratio led him to it: the more apples we got into the car, including those unaccounted for in the spare tire well and the various other pockets in the station wagon that might hold a few dozen Empires or Jonathans, the cheaper they all became. The ones hidden from view were the sweetest of all by my dad's accounting because they were not figured in the payment. At least, not in any payment by money.

The apples were upstate New York's finest, and my brothers Bob and Greg and I were New York's finest apple gatherers, forced to leave our ancient ailing ghost-and-mold-ridden house in Bolton Landing – a place nobody had ever heard of and never will again unless an asteroid hits it – and go apple gathering with our parents. It was September, the air was as crisp and cool as the backside of a pillow – one of my dad's cherished similes since he'd heard it on the radio – and gathering cool crisp apples was on his mind. We were gathered first like constricted sailors forced into the slave ship of the Country Squire.

A thousand pines, maples, and beeches washed by the station wagon as it plowed down a labyrinth of roads, each more broken and rough than the last, until we were abruptly – after boredom slouched to the backseats of our minds – there.

The orchard had a white banner over the road like the entrance to a summer camp – Canter's Grove: pick your own.

I picked excitement.

I was an apple-picking virgin and we just crossed the border to adventure with a bright banner to mark the entrance, the border between this unknown country and the mundane world of homework and school outside it.

My dad opened the driver's window, mumbled angrily to some jumpsuited guy in a booth about parking or some other hangover from the outside world that would not drag me back there. I did not listen to their harsh otherworlder talk up front but instead thought only of what lay ahead.

Apple picking: basket-bearer caddies would follow us on the ground as my brothers and I jet-packed through the treetops, throwing down the best apples for our caddies to catch with their first-baseman's mitts. I resolved to treat my caddy well – I would give him one of the finest pomes as my tip because here in Apple World the red and yellow orbs were the only currency. People made change for a 1-dollar-Macintosh by slicing it into quarters – I was sure of it.

We pulled into a parking area, my brothers and I spilled out of the ship, and our father cut off our legs with his bark: "Now, damn it, don't go running off. Nobody gets lost today and no goddamn running around here. Stay back here with your mother until I get us set up."

We all looked at her and Mom nodded to us to signify her agreement with this rule of law.

The excitement was Christmas Eve level. Ooh, I wondered how long it would take to get used to my jetpack. Not long, I figured. I'd just take just one joyride around the orchard and then fly right back and start picking. After all, no need to keep my caddy waiting.

Our dad called us over and he handed Greg and Bob baskets. I was looking around for my caddy when he handed me a dirty pillowcase.

"Now go out there and pick some good ones," our father said. "And don't come back until your basket is full. Make sure you compare each one that goes into your basket with the others, and keep only the best."

My brothers nodded. I was still trying to figure out where my jetpack was and why my basket was a bag of cloth. I couldn't give my caddy a pillowcase. I guessed I could but I'd have to reward him with more apple-money at the end.