2006 – Autumn Walking out behind the farmhouse, I can see the beginning of an apple orchard. Halfway up the hill, tan grasses transform into a dense forest. I lay in a rectangular lawn framed by the house and tall grasses. On my belly with my face hovering inches from the ground, my sister and I comb through the grass, hunting four-leaf clovers. So close to the ground, you can't avoid the scent of cool soil and fresh grass. Occasionally, one of us lets out a squeal. Unfortunately, the excitement is often short-lived. What we thought were four leaves turned out to be two clovers intertwined. But with enough patience, our labor pays off, and one of us stands up proud, cradling the little green stem of a lucky four-leaf clover. After sufficient celebration, the finder runs inside the farmhouse to lay the clover in parchment and flatten it between the pages of an old cookbook. Only to return to a new patch of grass, searching for more.
Alone now, I cross the small patch of manicured grass until I reach the overgrown brush. My feet lift higher with each step packing down the lifeless hay that irritates the back side of my knees. Lumps of dirt emerging from the mud and lurking beneath the grass challenge my ability to walk in a straight line. Eventually, I see a thin break in the brush ahead of me. I mind my step until I arrive at a narrow creek. Squatting down, I dip my fingertips into the cool stream and feel water gently tugging at my hand. This friend playfully hides treasures for me to find. When I see a glimpse of porcelain, I plunge my hand into the water, hoping it was not just an illusion. In my hand is an ivory shard of china covered in veiny cracks that have become black with sediment. I imagine the journey of this treasure. know that this treasure is called china and I fill in the rest of the gaps. I fantasize that it originates from the other side of the world, passing through the earth's core and resurfacing in my backyard. My imagination unleashes endless stories of the discoveries yet to be found, hidden underneath the water by my mysterious friend.
Past the creek, the ground is no easier to traverse. The itchy grasses and uneven ground only subside when I near the trees. Following the forest's edge, it is easier to navigate past the orchard and to the right side of our land. As the ground grows steeper, my breath becomes heavy and exits between my stiff lips through forceful sighs. Although there is no path or markers for a trail, I know exactly where to go. I know when to stay in the trees to avoid the tall grass and dip back into the grass to avoid the mud.
Unfortunately, many apple trees are unreliable and often remain bare or produce tart apples reminiscent of crab apples. About halfway up the hill, I pass some of the good apple trees. In the middle of a clearing, to my right, sits a tree with broad branches full of small red apples. These are called sheep's nose apples because of their lopsided shape. I pluck one off a low limb, take a single bite, and then toss it over my shoulder. One last push up the hill, and I arrive at two towering apple trees.
On the right stands Betsy, and to her left is Bertha. Betsy and Bertha are the most dependable trees in the orchard. Their apples are special. Unlike the other trees, all their apples are plump and green and, in my opinion, are far superior to the other apples in the orchard. Betsy is strong and confident; her branches are easy to climb. This is where we come when it is time to harvest apples for pies, sauce, or cider. My whole family helps lay out a big tarp downhill of her branches. My sister and mother hold up the bottom edge to capture all the apples. My father and I climb up her trunk and find a sturdy branch. On the count of three, we begin jumping. As Betsy's branches quake, apples plummet to the ground. All I can do is shriek and giggle as we bounce around her branches. I'm not very good at dodging, and a few large apples bonk me on the head on their way down. Once the tarp is covered in apples and too heavy for my mother and sister to hold, we climb down out of Betsy’s branches to sort the apples. I sneak off to the side to pay Bertha a visit. I have always felt guilty for the attention I give to Betsy but not Bertha. Standing just behind Betsy, Bertha is surrounded by tall, uncut weeds that graze her lowest branches. Wading through the grass under Bertha's arched branches, my imagination conceives of a fairy tale full of magical creatures that have previously visited this land. Upon hearing my name called out, I snap back to reality as my family realizes my presence and labor are missing.
Once again, I am alone. My arms and legs tingle with excitement in anticipation of the final leg of my journey. Leaving Betsy and Bertha behind me, I wander off to the right, slipping between two ordinary trees. This path is hard to follow, and often I find myself entangled between fallen trees and must backtrack to meet up with my intended course. Finally, I turn uphill, and a wall of rocks emerges before me. At first, the wall seems to tower above me, and my neck strains to look up. Either side begins with only a few rocks but grows taller until the middle section is at least three times my height. Looking for a challenge, I walk straight up to the middle of the wall and fumble for a dry rock to grip. When climbing, I avoid any slick moss that may slip my feet out from underneath me. As I progress up the wall, my fingers are coated in grainy mud that forces me to rely on my strength to grip the rocks ahead of me. Before I can see it, I remember the rusty barbed wire that runs along the top of the wall. I grab the base of a tree trunk sitting at the top and pull myself up and over the wire. I turn and look out at the rolling hills speckled with red, orange, and yellow trees.
2016 - Winter Standing at the top of the wall, I look in the direction of the farmhouse. I’m disappointed to see dull, grey branches that block the vibrant view. Avoiding the barbed wire and icy rocks, I make my way around the wall, my feet crunching through snow and decaying leaves. All the leaves have fallen from the trees, and the forest feels like it is sleeping. Quietly, I follow my footprints through the snow and leave the rock wall behind me. Emerging into the opening, I glance at Betsy and Bertha but do not stop as my nose and ears are beginning to sting from the cold air. As I continue down the hill, my awareness is set on the careful placement of each step. My surroundings fade away, and thoughts of warmth clog my mind.
Back inside the farmhouse, I remove my boots, gloves, hat, and finally my jacket. After putting all my gear in its proper place, I walk into the kitchen and wash my hands under warm water until feeling and color return to my fingertips. At the sink, I look out to see the apple orchard. Through the window, I can only see the snow concealing what were once treasures. The clovers are dead. The creek is mostly frozen. From here, it is impossible to see Betsy or Bertha. Even if they were in sight, they would feel dull without amber leaves and golden apples. My gaze lingers for a moment on the snow and naked tree branches. The view has a subtle beauty, but soon enough, I turn off the water, and my attention returns inside the farmhouse.