apples

It's drizzling outside, which sounds like a sweet lullaby after months of drought.

Yesterday afternoon at the grocery store, I spied these little crab apples. They were really too expensive but somehow they hopped into my cart anyway.

They remind me of the apples that grew on the tree at the bottom of the hill of my childhood world. We climbed that tree and swung from ropes. We ate the sour apples all day long, throwing the half eaten cores to the ground below.

If I stretch my mind even further back to my earlier childhood, I'll remember there was another apple tree in our backyard. It grew "wine apples". We were sure that meant they had wine in them, and we treated them like the forbidden fruit (meaning we gobbled them up sneakily). My grandfather used to lean against the back gate with his pocket knife and one of those apples, sweet and mealy, and slice off bits. If you were lucky, there'd be a slice for you.

I thought of all these apple memories as I considered these little bitties. I guess I decided that it was a small price to pay for a trip back to that apple tree. I wonder if they'll taste the same. And, if they do, what long forgotten things will dance back into my curly head.