First Apples

First Apples

One of the joys of living deep in the mountains was the freedom to walk.

The dirt "road" we lived on had a name and even a number, but no one who lived on it could tell you what they were. Our house was nestled deep back into the hillside, sitting way up high on the mountain about a mile from the main county highway. We could have had our mailbox down at the bottom of the hill where our driveway began. Everyone could have had their mailbox close-by.

For some unknown reason all of the home-owners along this hidden mountain road had (long before I showed up) chosen to have their mailboxes up at the far end of our dry, dusty road. The greyed steel mailboxes, shaped like a loaf of bread with their red flags were in a tightly clustered group. They were huddled against each other as if for protection from the swirling vortex winds of the cars and trucks speeding down the main road to Hazard. My parents had some purpose in mind when this decision had been originally made, yet it was alien to us kids that were the “Mail Man” of the family.

"Walking the mail" really meant running--as fast as your eight year-old feet would carry you—especially when special arrivals were expected. The new Sears & Roebuck catalogue, or the spring Burpee catalogue were always good enough reasons for a sprint.

Mostly I would just walk. From side to side I would meander aimlessly, exploring the woods around the road home. I knew who everyone was, and where everyone lived. Some were kinfolk. Some were friends. Especially in the early summer, it was the most fun to "walk the mail”.

One early summer’s day, I was walking down the road to get whatever the postman had gifted our box when I came upon a sight I will not soon forget. I saw an old man sitting by the edge of the road.It was Paulie Combs’ grandpa. It wasn't grandpa Combs that got my attention that morning. It was where he was sitting.

Approaching, I noticed the old man sitting on the old tire that we used to tie to the end of a long rope. We would swing in that tire out from the edge of the riverbank, and dive into the river during the heat of mid-summer. Grandpa Combs was sitting on our "official" riverbank swing!

With his frayed straw hat and his faded blue bib overalls he looked a mere portion of his usual self. Grandpa Combs stood nearly six and one-half feet tall when standing straight. He didn’t stand real straight any more. It just seemed like this wise old man had the weight of the world on his shoulders all the time. I guess it had crooked him over some.

“Good afternoon, Grandpa,” I said in greeting. “How are you this fine day?”

“Well, hello young master Bud!”

“I’m just going for the mail, Grandpa. Have you been yet?”

“No, I stopped off over at the river bank behind the Miller place. Look what I found!”

The old man's twinkling eyes fairly glistened as a smile stretched across his aged face. When Grandpa Combs found something, as every kid on our road knew, it was something special--and usually secret. I knew today would be special. Granpa Combs and I were about to share one of his amazing secrets. I ran up beside him, smiling conspiratorially.

The old man looked at me, sitting on "our" tire through the brim of his tattered straw hat. His grizzled, wrinkle-strewn face was the closest thing to leather I had ever known. His smile could light up the whole county.

Grandpa Combs had taken the whole lot of us kids into the “hidden cave” more than once. We only went because we knew that he would keep us safe, and Grandpa Combs was always good for an adventure. He showed us the secret lake, and the cave of cheese. Grandpa Combs knew everything there was to know--that mattered--to an eight year-old mountain boy.

He had fought in the war, and had come home with a plate in his head. He liked to “pull on the jug” from time to time, my Dad said. But Grandpa Combs told us kids stories that would take us to far away places, or right around the next bend in the road. If Grandpa had found something, it was surely something to see! He was everyone's "Grandpa" on our road, and we loved him!

My eyes got wide as saucers. “First apples!” I cried with glee.

“Yep. Saw ‘em yesterday as I was walkin’ the bank lookin’ for treasure. I figured they was ‘bout ready today, so I got me some. They won’t be no good fer eatin’, but they’ll be fine fer cookin' up a mess of fried apples,”

Grandpa had a basket of apples sitting just behind him. They were green as green could be, with just the first hint of cherry red around the top. It looked like a bushel basket, and apples were filling it to the brim!

“I was just tying my shoes when around the corner you came.”

I was near jumping up and down with joy. You see, when “first apples” started showing up, we knew that it wasn’t long long until school would be out for the summer. We would be free!

“You run get the mail, and I’ll wait here for ya. Maybe we can figure out just what to do with these apples!”

“Yes, Sir!” I cried.

I took off like a rocket. I raced to the mailbox and retrieved a couple of envelopes. Mommie was going to be mad as a wet hen to find out her catalogue hadn’t come yet. I didn’t care at the moment. All I wanted to do was to get back to that old tire and that old man. Heck, I would've tied his shoes for him just for a few of those first apples! Fried apples were the very best! I loved to eat them for breakfast, lunch, AND supper!

I ran as fast as I could back to the old tire and Grandpa Combs. He was waiting for me, standing right by that old tire. His shoes were tied, the basket of apples by him on the ground.

“I’ll tell ya what, young Master Bud,” said Grandpa Combs. “You help me fetch this basket of apples home, and I’ll make sure your ma has enough for breakfast, AND a pie!”

“Yes Sir!”

My mother was surely saddened when I told her that her catalogue had not come in the mail. But when I pulled that sack of apples from behind my back, grinnin’ like a possum with a coon treed--she sure lit up in a big ole smile! I peeled apples for over an hour that day. We made fried apples--and an apple pie that I still remember to this day.

Our Grandpa Combs was the very best! He was so smart, he even knew (to the day) when the first apples would be on the tree.

Contest Winner, "The Writer's Cramp" October 13th, 2006
Prompt: A basket of Apples, an old tire, shoestring

It was a created story for the contest, but the events and characters are real. This occurred in May of 1964.