Apple pickin'

Fall is time for apple picking and spiritual reflection. Sunday was a day for neither.

The kids and I finally made it to Apple Holler in Wisconsin for some traditional Midwestern pre-Rosh Hashana apple picking, and a good time was had by all, er, most. We finally got out of the apartment Sunday morning, after wrestling the kids into their clothing and dragging them to the breakfast table, a mere two hours after my intended departure time. I picked up a fellow law school widow and drove one hour North to Wisconsin.

Apple Holler has to be seen to be believed. It's an apple orchard, petting zoo, amusement park, playground, restaurant, and country store compound. My daughter was fascinated by the grassy field that served as a parking lot. "I've never seen parking car grass before!" she marvelled. My attention was on the horse doodie all over the field.

Watch your step! I kept bellowing at my kids as we zigzagged our way to Appleland.

The original plan was to pick a few bushels of apples to sweeten our New Year feasts, but it quickly became clear that apple picking was not the main attraction here. The older kids peddled old-fashioned carts through trails plowed through apple orchards, puzzled through a corn maze, rode a small train, and a smaller, old pony. The baby looked on enviously.

We never got around to picking any apples, unless you count picking a bunch of macintoshes and golden deliciouses out of big bins by the cash register.

The whole experience was a bit surreal. A dreadlocked Rastafarian sat in the gazebo playing guitar and singing a mix of Marley tunes and syrupy songs from the sixties like "Raindrops Keep Fallin' on my Head" while Orthodox Jewish families dragged their kids around gawking at goats and haystacks. I'm still not used to seeing other kids in kipot and tzitzit running around such a banal setting.

The baby wanted so badly to run with the pack, but every time we put her down she'd find something indescribably disgusting to try to put in her mouth. My sister widow and I traded off corralling kids all day. I had intended for us to have a fun outing among the fresh air and apple trees. Instead we ran a zone defense against three pint-sized adventurers. Of course, she never complained and I foisted a purse-full of apples on her for her troubles.

We rushed back after an hour and a half of inhaling hay to get my son to his football practice on time. "Practice" is being generous. Picture twenty six- and seven-year old boys running around a field hollering for a pass they have no prayer of actually catching. As a coaching educator, I was mortified. As a mom, merely amused.

I did notice, happily, that my son has field sense! As someone who has none, I was quite impressed as my son ran a sweep around the clump of defenders and made a sharp cut towards the "coach" who stood patiently, waiting for one of the boys to open up. My son deftly slipped his defender and found a great big opening to position himself for the reception. He waved his arms and piped up, "I'm open! I'm open!" Amazingly, he was. The young man spotted my son and aimed a soft pass right to him. My son reached for the ball, found it with his fingertips, and watched, with a mixture of excitement and disappointment, as it slipped right through his hands.

He smiled as he came running off the field towards me at the end of practice. "Did you see me?" He asked, his sprinkling of freckles glowing with pride. His sisters ran to him like the hero of the big game.

Aaaah, the apples of my eye.