My Oma piles up the cushions on the driver's seat of her 1984 baby blue Toyota Corolla. Giddy, my sister and I slide into the backseat. We are greeted by the comforting scent of dog that always lingers in the car. Long dog fur covers the throw and attach themselves to our clothes.
Oma drives slowly down the empty road as we look out the windows at the cows and horses. Finally, we pass the large home modeled after an Italian Villa (Oma always calls it the mobster's house), and turn down the dirt drive to the orchard.
There are apple trees everywhere we look. Many are heavy with fruit, but the ones closest to the road have already been picked clean.
Oma parks in front of the old blue house. We run to the door and let ourselves inside before she even has a chance to get out of the car.
The only light inside is sunlight filtering through the windows. There are tables full of apples-bagged, loose, red, green. We pick a bag of red apples and I look to make sure they aren't bruised or bug-eaten (I am super picky with my apples-they have to be perfect or I won't eat them).
I run to the refrigerator and grab a gallon of apple cider. Oma opens the register and deposits money for the apples and the cider. Before we're even back outside, my sister and I are crunching apples, smiles on our faces.
This post was written in response to this week's RemembeRED prompt from Write on Edge. This week we asked you to use the weather, or a photo of an autumn day bursting with color to inspire an autumnal memoir piece. Word limit is 300.
I knew I had to write, once again, about a memory I have with my Oma. I loved going to her house in the fall because she would always take us to the apple farm. It was always on a weekend morning when the store was closed, but, since she lived in a rural area, the farm owners would leave the door unlocked and trust anyone who came in to leave the money in the cash register. I always thought it was so cool to be in a store that was closed and still get to pick out my apples and cider.