come along. Together we walked toward the small orchard, which held several kinds of apple and pear trees. Auntie had already picked part of the harvest before I had arrived, but we would together finish what was left.
Auntie put the wheelbarrow down beside one of the trees and stepped onto the small wooden plank she had placed on it. This way she could reach most of the branches. It was my job to shake the branches with the picking tool so the fruit that was higher up in the tree would fall down.
I held the hook up high, meaning to shake one of the branches, but suddenly I stopped, lowered the hook and closed my eyes. I used to help Grandma with this. I used to pick up the apples she had dropped, but…
‘Auntie, shouldn’t I first lay down the straw?’ Auntie turned her head to me and nodded.
‘Shall I just get some from the barn?’
‘I made a few straw mats, just have a look here in the wheelbarrow.’
‘You brought them already? Why didn’t you say?’
Auntie smiled, but she gave no answer. Instead she hummed a tune and continued picking fruit.
I went over to her and took the straw mats from the wheelbarrow, brought them to my tree and spread the mats over the ground. Once again I raised the picking hook and shook the branches. The apples easily let go of the branches and they fell onto the straw mats without too much bruising. A few apples rolled away. Those were the first ones I collected, and after that I emptied each straw mat, gathered up the mats and moved on to the next tree.
My thoughts wandered to Mother who always would explain to me in detail how I ought to perform each household task. She always seemed to be right on top of me while I worked, ready to give directions and she would be angry whenever I made a mistake.
Auntie had simply given me the picking tool and had not even mentioned the straw mats. I was so glad I had remembered about the straw myself.
The following days were spent taking care of the fruit harvest. We peeled for hours, and I soon ended up with several blisters, discolored fingers and the odd cut from when my knife had slipped. We cooked pots full of fruit into puree, jam and jelly. I could tell that Auntie enjoyed the work. She hummed while she cleaned out the canning pots, distilled them and filled them with our handiwork. Every day there was a new batch of jars. Painstakingly she would apply a label to each jar, with every detail written on it, from picking date to canning date.
‘Why do you write all that information on there?’
She winked at me before she answered.
‘Just because I like to.’ She pointed at a label she just finished.
‘You see that? I like to give a suitable name to everything I prepare, I like to think it tastes better that way.’ Picked Together it said on the label.
I smiled, and peeled another apple for the applesauce we were cooking today.
‘Shouldn’t you write to your family and friends?’ The question came out of nowhere and startled me. I quickly made up a nonsensical excuse.
‘The postman would recognize my handwriting and start asking the Reverend questions.’
Auntie Be burst into laughter and without a word she shook her head. I was relieved she didn’t pursue the issue. What could I have said? That I refused to entrust even the smallest detail about my new life, let alone a whole letter, to my mother or the Reverend? That besides the two of them there was no one whom I had left behind in the village even though I had lived there for so long? No girl friends to write to, or to miss, no happy memories to share.
I was in the middle as we skipped along, arm in arm with Elzemarie and Joanne. We sang a happy tune and tumbled into the kitchen, laughing, and Mother welcomed us cheerfully. She had just poured us some lemonade and placed a small dish with cookies on the table when the door flew open.
‘What’s the meaning of all this, Anna?’ His head jerked towards my mother.
‘Maria brought along two friends. Will you
Auntie put the wheelbarrow down beside one of the trees and stepped onto the small wooden plank she had placed on it. This way she could reach most of the branches. It was my job to shake the branches with the picking tool so the fruit that was higher up in the tree would fall down.
I held the hook up high, meaning to shake one of the branches, but suddenly I stopped, lowered the hook and closed my eyes. I used to help Grandma with this. I used to pick up the apples she had dropped, but…
‘Auntie, shouldn’t I first lay down the straw?’ Auntie turned her head to me and nodded.
‘Shall I just get some from the barn?’
‘I made a few straw mats, just have a look here in the wheelbarrow.’
‘You brought them already? Why didn’t you say?’
Auntie smiled, but she gave no answer. Instead she hummed a tune and continued picking fruit.
I went over to her and took the straw mats from the wheelbarrow, brought them to my tree and spread the mats over the ground. Once again I raised the picking hook and shook the branches. The apples easily let go of the branches and they fell onto the straw mats without too much bruising. A few apples rolled away. Those were the first ones I collected, and after that I emptied each straw mat, gathered up the mats and moved on to the next tree.
My thoughts wandered to Mother who always would explain to me in detail how I ought to perform each household task. She always seemed to be right on top of me while I worked, ready to give directions and she would be angry whenever I made a mistake.
Auntie had simply given me the picking tool and had not even mentioned the straw mats. I was so glad I had remembered about the straw myself.
The following days were spent taking care of the fruit harvest. We peeled for hours, and I soon ended up with several blisters, discolored fingers and the odd cut from when my knife had slipped. We cooked pots full of fruit into puree, jam and jelly. I could tell that Auntie enjoyed the work. She hummed while she cleaned out the canning pots, distilled them and filled them with our handiwork. Every day there was a new batch of jars. Painstakingly she would apply a label to each jar, with every detail written on it, from picking date to canning date.
‘Why do you write all that information on there?’
She winked at me before she answered.
‘Just because I like to.’ She pointed at a label she just finished.
‘You see that? I like to give a suitable name to everything I prepare, I like to think it tastes better that way.’ Picked Together it said on the label.
I smiled, and peeled another apple for the applesauce we were cooking today.
‘Shouldn’t you write to your family and friends?’ The question came out of nowhere and startled me. I quickly made up a nonsensical excuse.
‘The postman would recognize my handwriting and start asking the Reverend questions.’
Auntie Be burst into laughter and without a word she shook her head. I was relieved she didn’t pursue the issue. What could I have said? That I refused to entrust even the smallest detail about my new life, let alone a whole letter, to my mother or the Reverend? That besides the two of them there was no one whom I had left behind in the village even though I had lived there for so long? No girl friends to write to, or to miss, no happy memories to share.
I was in the middle as we skipped along, arm in arm with Elzemarie and Joanne. We sang a happy tune and tumbled into the kitchen, laughing, and Mother welcomed us cheerfully. She had just poured us some lemonade and placed a small dish with cookies on the table when the door flew open.
‘What’s the meaning of all this, Anna?’ His head jerked towards my mother.
‘Maria brought along two friends. Will you
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