Picking Apples

It was in Stanardsville, Virginia.
We moved there halfway through sixth grade.
It was the first time since moving to Virginia that we lived apart from Granny and Boompa.

We only lived in that house for a year or two.
We shared a driveway with our neighbor—
they lived just below our house and had a Jack Russell my mother hated.
She said it yapped too much.

There was a large hayfield in the backyard,
a tree with a tire swing in the front.

I begged my parents for a dog that year for my birthday.
My mother brought one home ahead of time—
a long-haired black retriever.
I named her Cookie.

I’d play with her outside, but my parents didn’t want her in the house.
They said dogs were for outside.

I started sneaking her into my room at night.
Eventually, they just accepted that she was an indoor-outdoor dog.
They made me tie her to a stake when I went to school—
they didn’t want her pooping in the house.

I didn’t know how to train a dog.
Didn’t even know I was supposed to.
My parents weren’t any help.

Money became an issue again after moving to this house.
One of the first things to suffer: my shoes.
We couldn’t afford new ones.
The ones I had were falling apart.
I was constantly wrapping them in duct tape.
Boompa’s favorite tape—he kept several rolls of it in their basement.

Granny and Boompa had moved nearby,
to a subdivision named Twin Lakes, on Morning Glory Road.
Even though they were close,
their mailing address was in a different town—Ruckersville.

The move brought a bigger shift:
we changed counties.
Albemarle to Greene.

That meant I had to change schools.
I left J.T. Henley Middle School behind.
Most of my friends were switching to the private school in Ivy—St. Anne’s-Belfield.

The new school was William-Monroe Middle School.
Weird setup.
The elementary, middle, and high school were all on the same campus.
All called William-Monroe.

I remember complaining that the teachers weren’t as smart.
Mom said that didn’t matter—
the rent was cheaper,
and at least we weren’t living with Granny and Boompa anymore.

“They’re too crazy to live with,” she said.
She also said,
“If I ever get as crazy as Granny, you should shoot me.”

“Why wait?” I said.

She slapped me across the face and screamed,
“You don’t love me!”

She was probably right.

We still went to the same church,
even though it was now an hour away.
The drive was long, winding, stomach-churning.

That summer, I worked for a man from church.
He paid me $10/hour to move rocks from one side of his yard to another.
He was an older guy—very kind.
He used to be a teacher and now made historical board games.

After afternoons of rock-hauling,
we’d sit on his porch and play his games.
Civil War.
French Revolution.
He paid me for playtesting, too.

“You’re my best tester by far,” he’d say.

Eventually, he told me not to worry about the heavy work anymore.
“I’ll get one of the stupid ones for that,” he said.
“But don’t tell your mom.
She told me to work you hard so you’d lose weight.”

His wife would bring us tea.
I liked those afternoons.

Of course, my mom made me give her half of everything I earned.
“It’s only fair,” she said.
“Driving you there costs money. You eat a lot.
You’ve got to contribute to rent if we’re going to keep living here.”

Then, every Sunday,
she made me put half of what I had left into the church collection plate.

“That’s how it works,” she said.
“You pay God and Jesus,
and in return they help you make more money.”

I told her that was a load of horseshit—
my new favorite phrase.

That earned me a whipping from her.
And when Dad got home,
he gave me another.

That fall, I worked at an apple orchard down the road.
It was run by a couple of lesbians.
Mom didn’t like them,
but said the job would help me “build character.”

I got paid a dollar a bushel.
Good thing I was tall—
nearly 6 feet already.
I was always one of the tallest kids in school.

One teacher once told me,
“I’ve never had a boy be the tallest in the class.
It’s usually the girls who hit their growth spurts first.”

At the orchard,
I got all the apples I could eat
and all the cider I could drink.

The women who ran it would smoke pungent cigarettes
and talk to me about life.
They said everyone in the area hated them for being lesbians.

They taught me all about apples.
Which ones were good for eating,
which for pies,
which for cider,
and which were for moonshine.

“I know how to make moonshine,” I said.

They laughed—until I explained the process.
I told them Boompa’s stories about running an underground still
while working in Saudi Arabia for Fuad Abdell Oil.

They were impressed.

They showed me their still
and let me try a sip of their moonshine.

It burned.
But it tasted like apples.

From then on,
they looked the other way
when I poured a little into my cider.

It was way better than the cheap whiskey
I’d siphon off from Dad’s bottles.