Year after year it’s the same thing.
Our decision on where to go apple picking is strictly dependent on which orchard we think will STILL HAVE APPLES.
A string of unenthusiastic teenagers wave us to a parking spot. I think of my manager who enjoys that farm jobs are still common practice amongst the in-betweenies of adolescence and adulthood. Where obtaining money is a requirement to indulge in fun and not a part of survival. She talked about it like a childhood puppy that ran away: a fond but painful memory. A necessity to growing up. I respected this truth.
Despite the frost, our plans landed on what feels like the only day this month to reach over 60 degrees. I’m ecstatic, though slightly skeptical of my chosen outfit since my body has a default setting of cold.
It’s the warmth in the air that inevitably sways us to walk instead of use the hayride, though the trail leading us through the picked-over trees looked unpromising. Little did we know that at the very end by the Cortland apples they had ladders propped against the trees to aid in an exceptional apple picking experience. We took turns up and down the ladder, enjoying the full orchard view from a tree. We gathered what amounted to be the best set of apples we’d ever picked ourselves
Despite not finishing the maze, a severe lack of hard cider, and sub-par donuts in comparison to our beloved Russell Farms, I found myself exclaiming just how good of a day it was.
I’m still trying to find solace in letting go a little bit.
I can’t help but feel a bit of guilt in allowing myself an adventure as opposed to being home with my grandmother, I’m learning that my time to explore is as valuable as my time with her.
I’m beginning slowly understand that I don’t have to pick one over the other.