Them Apples

Them Apples

My tiny backyard is dominated by an ancient apple tree, which drops wormy little golden apples all over the lawn. Today, I was picking them up with something called a "Gopher Pick-Up & Reaching Tool"--a clasping device like the ones store clerks use to reach things on high shelves. I dropped about a dozen of them, in various stages of decomposition, into a trash bag.

Almost anything can trigger a chain of free associations for me, especially when I'm engaged in a dull task. So I thought about Eve and the apple, the silly little Macintosh computer I used to have at work, Mr. Crabby Appleton ("Rotten to the core!"), the Beatles' apple obsession, the Golden Apples of the Sun, and the many cultural riffs on the mythological aura of golden apples.

I like the idea of having an apple tree in my yard. It just seems right, even if I can't eat the apples--worms not being my favorite source of protein. It's like having my own little Eden, complete with forbidden fruit.

(And yeah, I'm mindful that if I lived down in NOLA, it would be underwater. Say a prayer.)