People are Like Apples - The More Scars They Have - The Sweeter Their Fruit

Uncle Archie arrived one late afternoon.

All the family was at our house to see him. I had been too pre-occupied playing with all my visiting relatives to notice him walking in the door: until the other kids began to scream and jump up and down.

He had just plunked a bushel of apples on the kitchen floor amidst the adult greetings and the confusion. “Uncle Archie, Uncle Archie” I yelled as I ran across the room to greet him.

He had heard the other kids excited about the apples and was placing several of them on the table when I approached. He quickly rubbed one against his pant leg and handed it to me: the biggest, roundest, reddest, most beautiful apple ever; as I jumped into his arms.

I set the apple on the table; he danced around bouncing me to some imaginary polka. He liked the other kids but none of them could ever mean as mush to him as I did.

My apple was gone off the table! Brian had stolen it. He was dancing around taunting me with it and sticking his tongue out, so I went after him. I began grabbing at my apple yelling that it was mine, Uncle Archie had given that one to me; I was kicking at him and trying to punch out his face and poke his eyes, when we were separated.

Most people were of the impression that I was being spoiled. They couldn’t see the difference between getting an apple and having the best apple in the bushel polished and handed to you by a favourite Uncle.

During the ruckus, my Granddad had been digging through the bushel. He started saying “It’s alright, it’s alright” I’m sure that although my Dad was on his best behaviour, he must have seen the fire in his eyes. “He took me by the hand and said, “Come here, Maggie come with me.
He took me outside to our favourite log. He had two really big and ugly apples with him. One, he sat on his lap. One he held up in front of his face and stared at, thoughtfully. He rolled it in his fingers and looked at all facets of it. I could see the scabs even in the setting sun.

His thumb casually moved along the apple from top to bottom; he turned it in his hand to look at the underside. I watched him intently and sullenly as he carefully began to polish the apple with a hankie he had pulled from his back pocket. He continued rubbing it in silence, aware that I was watching every move he made.

I became aware of the empty almost hollow feeling that had overtaken me. It was in my heart and in my stomach. It was new and weird. He wasn’t treating it like an apple. He was caressing it, paying attention to every bump and scab on it. His movements were slow and deliberate as he spoke; “Have you ever noticed how apples are allot like people?” he started, “they all come from a beautiful blossom; but not every one of them turns out to be perfect. The tree treats them all equally, but still some are affected by wind and hail, maybe they don’t get enough sun, or somehow become injured while they are still growing.

He paused and looked at me to see if I was listening. I wasn’t sullen any longer. He had given me something to think about. I was mesmerized and eager to hear more, “Like people” he continued, “When they become injured in some way, they grow a scab over the wound to protect it while it heals.”

He was gently caressing the knarls on the apple. Running his nail over an ugly scab; he revealed the juicy pink fruit just below the surface. He said, “The apple puts all its energy into healing the wounds; its energy is focused, so all the sweetness collects there. That’s its nature. That’s the nature if all things”.

He looked up at me again. I don’t know what my face was telling him. He quickly snapped, “What, you don’t believe me? Take a bite!”

He thrust the apple into my hands and reached for the one that was on his lap. I watched him shine it against his chest, and then he nodded.

We both, at the same time, bit into the biggest ugliest knarl in our apples. We laughed as the juice ran from our chins.

We sat gazing at the stars and chomping greedily on our fruit; making yummy, slirping sounds and laughing even more at ourselves.

On our way back into the house Granddad said, it was the best apple he had ever tasted in his whole life, and I agreed.