Procrastadabbler

It’s fall in western NY. Yesterday Mark and I took advantage of a break in the rainy day and walked down to the lake. The wind was roaring and had whipped up white caps on Lake Ontario. The air has the brisk feel of fall to it and every day we hear the Canada geese flying overhead. When I ride my bike around the area I am treated to the aroma of ripening grapes and apples. If you breath through your mouth, you can taste the fruit in the air. In the spring I wrote of the clouds of pink and white created by the blooming apple and pear trees. Now in the fall puffy dark clouds scuttle across the sky, but the sun breaks through and bathes the greens and emerging reds and oranges with golden light. The light is every shifting. First it’s dark and a bit forbidden, then the clouds move apart and the sun breaks through and it’s a riot of light, then there’s a dimming of the light, then a return. It’s impossible to predict.

As I ride, I also see the large wooden slatted boxes scattered throughout the orchards. I know these are being filled by migrant workers who shiver in the cold I celebrate. When I bit into one of those crisp, tart NYS apples, I can’t help but wonder, whose hands picked this apple and what is the story of those hands.