Apple Day

4th September 2011 Sunday

This morning, under a clean blue sky, we pick the apples - my husband standing on a ladder or climbing up into the tallest branches. Every now and again he shouts,

‘Mind your head,’

as another apple thuds onto the ground and splits it’s red skin on the brick path. I reach for the ones on the lower branches and sort and store the bulging plastic carrier bags into shallow boxes in the shed.

They join the stacked trays of garlic and onions. And tonight two more boxes - green tomatoes this time. My husband comes back from the allotment dripping wet and carrying three huge bags. He’s upset and despondent - his tomatoes have blight so he rescued the unripe tomatoes and tried to burn the plants but the rain put an end to it.

I don’t know where we are going to store all the pears, nearly ripe now, dripping from their branches like giant khaki earrings. And there is only so much green tomato and pear chutney you can make.

Sometimes I feel overwhelmed by all this produce clamouring for my attention -

Do something with me quickly before I go rotten.

Yesterday I sat back to back with my husband on a soft carpet. We were surrounded by dear friends also sitting back to back. We were attending a workshop with the beautiful Indian healer, practising a breathing technique. Although our backs were only touching I had the unshakeable sensation of being crushed. Like being pushed to the ground by a ton of hard apples, falling on my life. Burying me.