In the heat I’m struggling to hold up my end of our twosome. At least I was able to win my serve, setting up my partner at the net for overhead smashes and touch volleys. We change ends and I tip my H2O bottle, guzzling water mixed with Diet Gatorade. Liquid resembling iced tea drips down my chin and spills onto the clay. I may need some cases when I hit the grocery store.
Did I put apples on my shopping list? “This
humidity is brutal,” one of our opponents says on the change-over. “We really
need a cold snap to break it.”
What else is on my shopping list? Water, Gatorade, and apples. The apple tree in our yard was cut too harshly by the arborist and this season won't bear any of the Delicious variety we love. We could always go to the orchard in Rhode Island, where we took one of our granddaughters.
It was hot then, too. I had worn a sweatshirt and had to wrap it around my waist. My forehead dripped onto my sneakers, which began to resemble tie-dyed patterns of fallen apple residue and sweat. Yellowjackets swarmed over the saccharine remains, and trying to escape them made me glisten more.
The orchard owner had pointed out on a map where the different varieties were growing. Eight-year-old Arden and I balanced the bright orange metal picker vertically between us, her auburn curls bobbing up and down with each step. The ten-foot picker rocked like a metronome to her bobbing. We took off down row three for the Delicious variety, with their deep red heart shape and bumps on the bottom.
“Grandma, I can’t reach,” Arden said, looking
up at the tree we selected. The lowest apple was about ten feet above her head.
“Don’t worry. I’ll lift you."
I got behind her, while Arden lifted the orange
basket with its long metal prongs into the air. The picker began to swing back and forth like a flag in a soft breeze.
“Aim for that big one in front. Sit the apple in the basket, then pull down. The prongs will grab it.”
I lifted her hips and heaved upward. “I can’t reach it,” Arden yelled. “I’ve got to let go!”
“Hold on! I’ll lift you higher." My thighs started to shake. The long orange shaft waved right and left like a flag caught in a storm.
A thud and then another resounded in front of us, as the bright metal shaft hit the ground and bounced under our tree. Arden, wrapped in my arms, landed on top of me, facing the hanging apples. We lay together in the middle of the cidery, gelatinous mash.
"You okay, granny?" she shrieked.
I pulled a dented, brown Delicious from my twisted sweatshirt and tumbled over her, alternating laughter with kisses in her neck.
“Five-four,” Shelly says from the other end of the court. "First serve."
