30 Apples and Some Pie; my love for Johnny Appleseed

Morgan–we went apple picking again! I hope you have also had the opportunity to get some yummy Minnesota apples as well. Fall seems to have arrived here. We are keeping a list of notable “cold” dates on a white board in our dorm. Check it: “September 22nd–I could see my breath last night.” RIDIC.

So, we each got a peck, or about 30, apples, which means there’s almost a hundred apples between the three of us. I’m psyched to a) eat them, and b) do cool things with them (we know a guy with a dehydrator. Can you say apple chips?) We also got some PIE at the orchard which was…indescribably delicious.

Fall and apples seems so two and two (or is it hand in hand? eh), and apples just seem…quintessentially American. So, so versatile–apple pie, apple turnover, apple sauce, apple donuts, apple cider, apple apple apple–and hardy, like potatoes. Heck, when Bubba listed all the sorts of things one could make from shrimp he might as well have been listing all the things one can make out of apples. Same deal.

Mo have you ever seen the cartoon of Johnny Appleseed? It’s precious. Check it out:

A) Johnny has some sick apple juggling skills, and B) he didn’t even FLINCH when that swarm of bees came and ate his apple. Cray. (Part duo of this post: the history of Johnny Appleseed? Because…WHAT.a.cool.dude.)

Alright, nada mas. I’ve got to get up early because I want to harvest on the farm here, ergo, sleep is calling. Hope you’re well. Love,

Drew

P.S. I BOUGHT A BIKE.

I’m in the process of naming him (how do I know he’s a him? Well, Charlotte–one of my roommies–and I both bought bikes from this older couple who refurbishes worn-down bikes, and they said the bike I bought, and the bike Charlotte bought, belonged to their neighbors, a husband and wife, and mine was the husband’s (Charlotte’s, the wife’s, is decked out with a more comfy seat and a light. Alas. And yet, I have the rack on the back! Whattup gender roles.))

Thoughts on a name? B-storm it. Note: our hot-water kettle (NOT hot pot…as I thought it was called. who knows what a hot pot is.) is already named Gustaf, so uh, that’s taken.

On Leaving

I hate this business of saying goodbye. I won’t cushion it with flowery words: I hate it. I am leaving the farm tomorrow morning and I do not want to. Just as I begin to feel at home in this place again, it runs away from me. So it goes.

I suspect that this is one of the nastier parts of “growing up”–the coming and going, the loving and leaving. The finding of home in places different from where you “are from.” Which is ultimately a wonderful, wonderful thing, to feel ownership over a place, to feel that you have a place in a community of individuals.

But at times, the pain of departing makes me wonder why we ever arrive in the first place.

There are moments when it seems fine, when I convince myself that I am separated, aloof, compact and able to control my own emotions. I try to remember that in a few weeks I will be going to college and entering a whole new community. But to be honest, I don’t want to go through it all again–the discomfort, the awkwardness; the feeling as if no one truly knows…who you are. Because though I have only been here for seven weeks this summer, at this moment, Chewonki is where I most feel me. I’m young, but not young enough not to know that that is a rare thing in this scheme of randomness.

I guess I’ve got to suck it up though. Whether we like this business of leaving or not, it happens. Especially “these days” I think. We’re more…nomadic creatures, and particularly young folks, with the way the educational system works. Always moving. The placeless-ness is almost expected–we’re expected to travel and meet new people and share ourselves with many places, which all sounds terribly romantic, and perhaps is…I can’t be sure yet. But what about settling down? What about, well, staying put? Duration, longevity, and commitment to a people and a place. These things I believe we undervalue.

Then again, I know why we arrive. Because it’s better to have love and lost than never loved. It’s better to have come and gone than never come. The pain of leaving is nominal in comparison to the joy we receive while we are in a place–and you know it, because leaving would not hurt nearly so much if it were not so.

Just some thoughts I was thinking on this rainy Sunday afternoon, while I packed my things away.

Yours, Drew

P.S. The infamous Morgan is visiting. We have been adventuring…post to come.