I loved living among the apple trees. The rows stretched out in harmonious beauty, birthing apples of various varieties. Macs, Braeburn, Russets, all with very little effort it seemed lay heavily on the trees and on the ground.  I would sit under their branches, armed with a book chosen to keep my imagination company after I had picked a few apples to munch on. Sometimes I lay back, lounging in the summer sun. Contentedly staring at the clouds planted in the heavens, I  savoured the crisp, lush feast of chosen pieces of fruit. 

Sometimes I think about that time. Funny how the memory works. Even the grass smell gets conjured up as you travel down memory lane. The books were used, scrounged from yard sales, or attics of family. These books inspired me, they made me feel to the uttermost.  Taylor Caldwell, Alexander Solginetzen , the Bible , Martín Luther’s The Red Door,  just to name a few. What luxury to a young reader, a gift that keeps on giving as they say, another lush feast of chosen pieces of fruit. I dare say they helped mould me into who I am today. Apples nourished the body but the books nourished my soul.

 My friend Claire on the farm down the road lived a charmed life. That was my thought every time I was invited to her house 

 My Papa seemed to stretch upward to infinity.