There is nothing more quintessential than apple picking in New England in the fall. It seems to inspire people. Robert Front penned “After Apple Picking,” perhaps after he went apple picking. It makes people fall in love. It ignites hunger, albeit for cider and caramel apples. It provides a tableau for artists of all kinds.
It is basically the last hurrah before winter blankets everything with a chill that will hold you in its grasp until June.
Honey Pot Hill Orchards in Stow, Massachusetts stands ready to satisfy your apple-picking urges, letting you clamber up the A-frame orchard ladders to the top boughs, gorge on warm cider and caramel apples, and bounce around on a hay ride. Surely, after an afternoon there, you too will likely be dreaming dreams where
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
You’re instep arch might also ache, on top of ladder fearing the boughs would break. And maybe, just maybe, you will keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For you too will have had too much of apple-picking, of the great harvest you yourself desired.
Or perhaps you’ll have nightmares of the creepy scarecrows that bid you farewell as you depart the parking lot.