Apple Orchard and Pie
A couple of days ago, I drove over the hills to a town close to the sea. I was in search of apples—a certain type of apple not sold in the usual grocery chains. It’s rare, delicate, and prefers to stay close to home.
I wanted to bake a pie for Scott. I feel fall weather on its way. For the first time in months, I enjoyed a cup of tea: Earl Grey with lavender. Scott rarely drank coffee; he preferred tea.
On our travels and at home, he would mix up a brew of herbs, flowers, and magical blends we found at local farmers' markets. I remember a tea for dreaming; it was blue. We sipped it every night before falling asleep.
On the way to the farmstand to buy my apples, I remembered the drives we took—long drives through old country farm roads behind the towns where we live. Old farmhouses, unchanged, unremodeled, and unmodernized.
Farmhouses with clotheslines swaying in the breeze, an old dog surveying the cottage garden and paddocks while keeping vigil over his menagerie of goats, chickens, and ducks running about. Chubby, fat cats sleepily pawing at a passing bug. An old screen door noisily screeching with the comings and goings of family and neighbors.
While Scott drove around and around until we reached the sea, I would point out the yellow farmhouses. I like that one.
“I know you do. It’s yellow. Your favorite.”
Later, I would learn yellow was Scott’s favorite too. I never thought to ask him at the time.
We dreamed of farmhouses. From time to time, Scott would ask me, What if I want to travel? What if I get invited to go on a trip with a friend and take photos? Would you be okay with that?
Yes, of course, I would tell him. I will take care of the farmhouse, the gardens, and the animals. I want you to explore. I’ve traveled a lot. I didn’t have children, like you. Sometimes I will go with you, sometimes I’ll stay home.
Scott never took those solo travels. He brought me with him. We ended up on the road together traveling through the desert, through western states to the border of Canada, and up and down the California, Oregon and Washington coastline. The farmhouse would have to wait for another time.
After Scott died, I searched for ways to communicate with him. I received signs, visions and visitations—in dreams and in our physical world. Still, I wanted to go deeper, always deeper.
I was guided to a dream teacher and signed up for his courses. I learned how to meet Scott and travel to far-off places and different dimensions. I learned to travel with Scott close to home, too.
I remember on one of our journeys opening a gate to a farmhouse. It was a picket fence gate with peeling yellow paint, sticky and requiring much effort to push open. Scott was beside me. He helped open the gate to a lovely garden filled with hollyhocks and a swinging bench for two. I remember sitting there with him, watching the sun disappear over the hills, the fog roll in, and the hollyhocks in pastel pinks, yellows, and lavenders sway in the salty breeze.
On another journey, we landed in an apple orchard. It wasn’t a large orchard, just one big enough for a half-dozen trees or so—enough to make all the pies you could want and can applesauce, too.
We followed the orchard to the back door of a farmhouse and found ourselves in the kitchen. An elderly woman was stirring a pot atop a gas stove while her husband was seated at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in front of him. Whether they were aware of us or not, I do not know.
Spinning tales of his travels, sipping his coffee with his old knobby wooden cane resting close beside him. She stirred while he spoke. They were comfortable together. They were so old. So familiar.
At the farmstand, I turned off my car and went inside to gather a box of apples. I could feel Scott with me. A gentleman sat outside playing his guitar. Scott loves music, so I decided to stay for a bit. There is a small coffee station outside as well, with a few loose tables and chairs. I ordered a small coffee with cream, placed my box of apples on the table, and sat back to listen.
Listening to “Summertime,” I felt a nudge from Scott to give the coffee girl an apple. The message came with the knowledge that she didn’t eat the sweet stuff she sold and had forgotten to bring something to eat during her shift.
I looked through the box, found the brightest red apple underneath the golden ones, and placed it on top. After a couple of songs, ready to go, I walked over to the café and noticed the young girl sitting on a stool taking a break after a long line of people and specialty coffee drinks.
I caught her attention and handed her the apple.
“Thank you, that is so sweet. I will have it right now for my break,” she smiled.
I could feel Scott smiling, too.
Driving home, I could feel the whole picture. We are doing this together. All of it. Nothing will be left out. We are living our story and our dreams.
At home.
My mom ended up baking the pie. She put it in the oven when the clock struck 2:22 pm not by design.
The pie with golden crust and stuffed with apples and cinnamon is delicious. In the morning, in our garden surrounded by late summer blossoms, I have a piece with my coffee. And I remember to let Scott taste it too.
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