Grasshoppers scampered, jumping after my lightly treading footsteps startled them from one rough blade of dulling green grass to another. The coarse edges of drying greenery scratched softly against my toes as I meandered slowly through a tenderly cleared field, dotted with giant rolls of hay, looking like tightly woven skeins of yarn, planted heavily all over the terrain of rolling hills and dipping valleys. The late autumn sun baked my skin, and I basked in it, worshiped it, let it warm my flesh to the touch. Blue sky was laid out above me, a vast tapestry with wavy, lazy, wisps of pale white clouds stretched out from end to end. Just out of reach was a stand of apple trees, an orchard within an orchard, roped off and marked with a hand written sign forbidding adventurers and admirers from picking the heavy hanging, brightly pink hued fruit that dangled from the low lying branches. For the first time in my life, I bit down gently on the white tipped ends of clover petals, feeling a trace of sugary water tickling the tip of my tongue. The gently blowing wind pulled and tugged at strands of my hair, hanging down, dancing light footed against my neck. Unexpectedly, I had one of the most truly unforgettable experiences of my life.
There, just miles up a winding country road, is an old Orchard and a kind hearted farmer who is proud of his land, and his living. It was just by chance my friend Betsy and I decided to take a leisurely drive up State Route 669, heading North from Malta to Deavertown, in Morgan County. Well, perhaps not by chance. There is a barn on this road I had passed once before. It is an old wooden barn on a farm beautifully placed on a hilltop, and on the face of this barn is an enormous plaque of Our Lady of Guadalupe, holding her hands in prayer, blessing the tiny mountains and faithful farmers within her view. I fell in love with this barn, and decided my friend Betsy would love it also. I also knew there was an orchard on this road, further on past the immaculate rural vision. I’d learned of this orchard just weeks ago at the Athens Farmer’s Market, where one of the men working the market stand was wearing a Morgan Raiders t-shirt, and knowingly I inquired about the location of the orchard itself. We drove past the sloping gravel drive at first, thinking that the last thing either of us needed was more apples, but something stopped my car and brought to us a consensus that we really ought to stop. Treacherously backing the car up a tiny, blinding hill, we zipped back just far enough for me to make a sharp little turn into the drive marked by a sign reading “Apples,” and “Cider.”
I cannot exactly explain the events that followed our decision to backtrack, and take the time to explore a little piece of Morgan County’s vast patchwork of agricultural heritage. There is a spirit about Cherry’s Orchard that simply cannot be put into words. The land itself hums, it buzzes and hums, like far off singing, like distant voices joined in joyful song. The driveway is lined with multitudes of flowers, plants, trees and shrubs. Red zinnias caught my eye from the road, and a flowering vine fully loaded with pink bell shaped blossoms coiled about a trellis serving as a welcoming frame to an always open door. This farm was bursting with bright pinks, purples and blues which are not usually found in the heat of passionate autumn. The colors did not stop upon entering the small building which serves as the farm stand, but rather were almost painted from outdoors to in, taking the form of jars filled with vintage, cellophane wrapped hard candies, baskets of apples ranging from shiny candy red to verging on neon green, to deep orange jars of pumpkin butter, to a vast palette of jars of golden honey—orange blossom, buckwheat and wildflower each a different shade. From a door in the back of the farm stand emerged a kind eyed farmer, donning a scratchy white beard and charming, yet worn and functional straw hat. We complimented him on the breadth of beauty that was his farm, and he gave us one of the greatest and most simple gifts we’d ever been given. He invited us to take some time and walk around the orchards, to explore and take photos and enjoy the land.
The contrasting complexity and simplicity of life on Cherry’s Orchard seems so idealistically satisfying. We walked up a gravel coated country lane, where tracks worn in by years of traveling pick-up trucks and tractors lead us up and over a hill, and back to an old barn neighbored by a patch of Fuji apple trees. The only sounds that surrounded us were the soft buzzes of happily working bees, the orchestral pangs of grasshoppers, and haphazard chirps and melodic refrains of songbirds. That and the barely noticeable mechanical click of my digital camera, as we snapped dozens of photos, breathing in the countryside, the harmony and hospitality and the effortlessness of each other’s company. The grove of yet to be picked Fuji apples was full of large, crisp fruit with rosy skin and picture perfect droplets of slowly dripping morning dew. Just beyond there were vast, mowed fields and rounds of packed hay scattered about the rising and falling ground. I put my nose up to the warm, dry, coarse grass, bundled tightly together, and took in a deep breath of amber colored, earthy aroma that brought me back to my days as a small child, running through a corn maze and making my own scarecrow at a fruit farm near where I grew up. I leaned gently against the bale, and laid my hands upon the curve of its scratchy voluminous body and felt my spirit resting deep within me, content and sighing, happy and warm. There are times in life when my spirit soars, full of excitement and wonder, and I feel like my feet could be lifted from the ground at any moment. I love those times. There are also times in my life where my spirit feels tucked in, comforted and safe, sweetly sleeping, barely breathing and content. With the slowly baking hay bale warming my thighs, my feet nestled into hearty sprouts of clover, and my eyes cast upon land that can only be described as belonging to both Heaven and earth, this was one of those times, and I might have loved it even more.
We dawdled in the fields, were in no hurry to win any race in the alleys between rows of squatty apple trees, and lingered, loitering amongst bunches of royal purple Concord grapes. We shared laughter, and moments of silence when the magnificence of the farm stole our full attention. We felt the smooth bark of apple trees between our fingers, the pock marked skin of slick, early lemons, and the comforting heat of an ember-glowing sun upon our cheeks. We tasted nutty buckwheat honey, crisp and juicy Winesap apples, and the lip sucking sweetness of biting, cold pressed cider. By the time we made our way back to the farm stand, we’d discovered that we’d spent more than an hour drifting about the plush, fertile landscape. We loaded our arms up with apples, garlic, peach butter, honey, and a pocket full of hard candy, kindly paid and appreciatively thanked the farmer for his gracious and unforeseen hospitality, and drove away contently deeper into the temperate, fall kissed mountains of Morgan County.
I was reminded today that life is too short to take any experiences we’re fortunate enough to have for granted. There isn’t a video game or movie or television show created that can generate the same kind of feeling within me that this simple visit to a farm on a Sunday morning gave me. There isn’t a book that can be read, a class taught, a song sung that does justice to the energy that flowed like life through my veins as I stood, eyes closed, against the hay bale at Cherry’s Orchard. There is no comedy or drama that can portray the emotions I felt. I could spend a thousand Sunday mornings in church and never have the same peace in my soul that was brought to it today as I sat pleased and at ease among the tall stems of red and yellow zinnias. While there is no harm in doing all of these things, just don’t forget that beyond your door, just out your window, just up your road, a world exists that many people drive by, pass up and ignore during the monotonous routine and obligation of our everyday lives. Don’t take the perfection of freshly picked apples, the quiet simplicity of a living, breathing hillside, or the complexity of a well run, walking, living farm for granted. It’s fall. Get outside and lay your hands on Ohio’s robust, round apples, scrape your palm on the gnarled knob of a great terra cotta pumpkin, and taste the sweetness of brusque, cool cider, chilling your insides. If you live in or near Morgan County, Ohio, go to Cherry’s Orchard and ask if you can take a walk. You’ll lose yourself and be wishing you’d never be found again.
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