An Apple in the Grass

Mah brother and I were walkin’ through the field of apple trees in the evenin’ before the funereal—recallin’ this or that thing that had happened in this or that place, flippin’ over the memories after the fashion of the Apple family who gather again in the place where we were all born—tryin’ to make sense of the foals we once were and of the family members who were once with us.

“Hey, Applejack, do yah remember the time yah were lost on the farm?” mah brother asked. Whoa, Nelly, did I ever! That was a long time ago, though, as I was four when that happened.

“We were lookin’ everywhere fer yah,” he said. “We looked fer yah behind the barn, in the field, and even in the haystacks and the well. I think that was the only time I ever saw our Papa upset. He didn’t stop until yah were safe n’ sound. He ran through ‘em trees of ours, lookin’ behind every one. We weren't able to do anythin’ to calm him down, and yah were up in yer room cryin’ the entire time.”

“Yep. That’s what happened. I, can’t really remember why I was cryin’ that day,” I said, lookin’ over at him. “Do yah remember why?”

“I jus’ might, AJ,” he said. “Wasn’t because yah lost an apple charm or somethin’ like that? Papa gave it to yah, remember?”

“I sure do,” I said. “I did lose the charm he gave me. That’s why I was all pent-up in mah room.”

“But why?”

“Because sometimes in life, a meaningless and insignificant object could be worth more than a fortune to a pony.”

“But why did it mean so much to yah?” I didn’t answer. “Yah can tell me yah know. I am yer big brother.”

He was mah brother. But there was more to it than that, I reckon. I’d never seen somethin’ so alike to us Apples: It was a tiny, red apple charm attached to one of ‘em thin chains yah’d see at the dollar store or at some jewelry store; it sounds silly, don’t it? Well, it wasn’t. This one was screamin’ Apple Pride all over it. Mah Papa told me he had gotten it from some ol’ derby he was in a few years before I was even born. And he gave it to me one day.

Yah would have understand about mah Papa and that was the hardest thing to tell. If I told yah that he worked all day long, fer his entire life—yet I had never seen him rushin’ around to get stuff done, that’d make him sound dumber than a bucket of rotten apples, now wouldn’t it? If I told yah that he never carried me on his back, when I was a filly, and that he never laughed when I tried to carry a bucket of apples all the way from the field back to the barn, that’d make him sound like a poor sport, now wouldn’t it? None of that would be true, let me tell yah.

There ain’t no way yah could tell it to make it sound like anythin’ more than an ol’ coot with a family at sea, and with me, the filly that’d grow up to help out with the farm after mah Papa’s passin’. Yer gonna have to take mah word fer it, I reckon, as there was more to it than that. It was as if his sure-footed way on buckin’ ‘em apple trees all day long in the field left him the moment he came near the door of mah world—and that he must wipe his hooves before he stepped on in; and I, sensin’ that but not understanin’ it, felt, at the sound of his step outside, mah world’s foolish fragility.

He would fix the small spot where I planted beans n’ other seeds before he prepared the big ol’ garden, even if spring were comin’ on late; and he would never ever ask me how many rows I thought we’d need and, if he made four tiny rows, and I thought we needed three, I couldn’t ask him to change ‘em. If I ever stepped hoof behind the load of hay, longin’ to ride, and he walked ahead of our good ol’ wagon, I couldn’t ask him to put me up on the thing, and he wouldn’t make any move to do so, till he saw me tryin’ to get up mahself.

Then, mah Papa, had jus’ given me that apple charm, shinin’ with Apple Pride.

He took it out from his ol’ saddlebag many times, pretendin’ to look at it, waitin’ on me to notice him. And when I did, he said, “It’s yers, Applejack. I want yah to keep it safe.”

“Yah really mean it?” I asked, smilin’.

“Yah betcha.”

“Thanks, Papa!”

I started wearin’ it every day. With somethin’ like this, I’d be foolish not to wear it, especially when it’s showin’ mah pride as an Apple. But the more I thought about wearin’ mah apple charm, the more I worried about losin’ the darn thing with all the walkin’, runnin’, n’ workin’ I do. I’d be bound to lose it one way or another; and I couldn’t risk that. I sat down on the dirt path, admirin’ it to death.

Come autumn, the liftin’ smells in the late afternoon of the farm overtook mah senses: The smell of harvested crops, dried leaves, and fresh manure hung still in the sun. It was a drowsy day, I reckon, if mah memory serves me right. The dirt on the road was puffin’ mah hooves, warm n’ soft as sleep could be. And then there were those buckin’ crows that would never shut on up. They’d be squakin’ nonstop fer an hour or two, and I’d almost lose mah mind.

When I got to a quieter spot, I started to play with mah apple charm, held it right on up into the sunlight, watched it shine. Then I closed mah eyes, took it off, and buried it deep ’n the grass and then, with mah eyes still closed, walk around and go on back to find it, teasin’ mahself foolishly every time I found its red glory stickin’ out of the ground. I did it one too many times, that’s fer sure.

It was almost dark when I began to hear voices trailin’ down the hallway toward mah room. It was Granny Smith who had found me. I guess when it came dusk she thought of me bein’ in bed, sleepin’ the night away. “Oh, Applejack, where have yah been? We’ve been worried sick!” she said, a tad relieved.

“I lost mah apple charm,” I said.

“Yah lost yer apple charm? What in tarnation made yah come up here n’ hide?”

If mah Papa hadn’t been there, I might have jus’ told her. But when I looked at him, straight in the eyes, standin’ there like the shape of a everythin’ sound n’ straight, it was like daylight ridin’ the memory of a silly ol’ dream. Oh, I couldn’t bear the shame of recallin’ before him the visions I had built in mah head today durin’ the autumn day, when almost anythin’ could be made real, as I buried mah apple charm and dug it all up again! I couldn’t explain the sickness that was strikin’ mah stomach when, right there and then, I had to believe that mah apple charm was really lost. And how could I explain to ‘em that I wasn’t really hidin’ from ‘em? How could I explain to ‘em that the only possible place fer me to run from the awful feelin’ of loss was the soft safeness of mah bed?

“I lost mah apple charm, Papa,” I said, lookin’ at him, then turned mah head to plant mah face in mah pillow. “I jus’ wanna go to bed.”

“Oh, AJ,” Granny Smith said, “but it’s almost nine. And yah haven’t had anythin’ to eat yet. Yah scared us all to death.”

“Yah should git some food in yah, Applejack,” mah Papa said. “C’mon, now.”

If I remember correctly, that was the only time he spoke right there and then; and I knew Granny Smith would talk about it over and over again, but I never thought mah Papa would ever brin’ it up again. But then when mornin’ came the next day, when we had the forks in our hooves, gettin’ ready to toss out the ol’ hay, he held up the moment of leavin’ the field fer some reason. He pricked the ground with his pitchfork, eventually bringin’ in another bucket of water, even though the kettle was full. Then he took out the  nail that held his ol’, broken’ brace together, and put I back in the exact same hole. After that, he went on in to see if the pigs had eaten’ everythin’.

Then mah Papa asked me somethin’. “Do yah have any idea where yah lost yer apple charm?”

“I sure do,” I said. “I think I do.”

“Let’s look fer it together.”

We were trailin’ down the dirt path to the place where I lost mah charm. He didn’t offer to prop me up on his back. “It’s around here somewhere,” I said. “I was playin’ with it in the grass over there.” He looked at me funny, but he didn’t ask me what kind of game anypony could play with an apple charm in the grass.

I might’ve known he would find it. Makin’ a whistlin’ noise he could tap the bark off an apple tree with his hooves, jus’ hard enough so the they wouldn’t break, but so it would break free from the wood, though I couldn’t believe he had ever whistled as a young colt. His hooves could buck an entire apple tree of its apples in less than two seconds; and if I broke the handle of mah wheelbarrow, damaged beyond repair, he could take it and brin’ it on back to me.

Papa squatted on down, runnin’ his hooves through the blades of grass, not brushin’ it madly like I had done, even rippin’ it from the ground. He found the charm within a minute’s time. He held it on up to the sun, its charm shinin’ in the light, twirlin’ around in the wind, as if the moment of passin’ it to me were a deadline.

“AJ,” he said, “Yah didn’t have to hide it. I’d never beat yah.”

“Come again? Yah don’t think that was the reason, right?”

Mah stomach was begin’ to churn. I felt utterly terrible when he said that. It felt like I beat him somehow. The expression on his face looked like I’d seen it some mornin’ when Granny Smith was quiet and he’d pick on up the newspaper and follow the lines with his eyes, pretendin’ to read em, even though he didn’t read one darn line. Right there and then, I jus’ had to tell him the truth, no matter how foolish it sounded; because, if I didn’t, it wouldn’t be who I am. After all, honesty is mah key trait.

“I wasn’t hidin’ it, Papa, I swear!” I said, mah voice more frantic than a young filly about to present her speech to her class. “I was burin’ mah charm, pretendin’ it were buried treasure, and I was tryin’ to find it. I was pretendin’ to be a treasure hunter, jus’ like in those Darin’ Do novels. But then when I lost it. I didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t know where to go.”

Mah Papa was bobbin’ his head as I spoke, and it looked like he was only merely listenin’. Even then, I still had to make it sound truer.

“I made it out to be somethin’ special to me,” I said, hopin’ this would do the trick. “I was makin’ it out to be somethin’ that’d give me strength so I could help mah Papa out with the chores, and then we’d finish on early, and then we could go to town and sell the apples we harvested, and then everypony would see us walkin’ along, prideful as ever to be an Apple.”

Papa’s head was still, not movin’ an inch as I spoke. Oh, but that was the darn truth I tell yah! Why won’t he believe me? Then I went on, hopin’ it’d help mah case.

“And then we’d be laughin’, talkin’, havin’ a good ol’ time…” I said louder, this time smilin’ afterward, by the utmost conviction that he did believe me after all.

He looked up into the sky, and what I saw will never leave me, fer that was the only time I ever saw tears in his eyes, let me tell yah.

But I wondered. Why was he hesitatin’ to give me mah charm back and then put it back in his saddlebag? If I remember correctly, yesterday, I never found any more strength than I already have today, and mah Papa and I never went to town to sell apples together. But then I had a pretty darn good feelin’ that he knew what that would be like, jus’ the exact same.

I found mah apple charm later that day in mah Papa’s saddle bag, when we were gettin’ ready to cook dinner. It was still shinin’ with Apple Pride. Papa must have cleaned it.

I left it there.