February past: We have five thriving apple trees, bearing four types of apples, two of which are Macintosh, which do so well in the Bitterroot Valley. This time of late winter we are enjoying the last of the stored apples of the fall, now a bit withered, but still tasty. We tumble out of our warm beds and into the kitchen on a chilly school morning, and on the pancakes I often make for the kid’s breakfast, we have Martha’s apple sauce, warm, chunky, sweet and cinnamony. Some years we have succeeded in borrowing an apple press, and the utterly wonderful, fragrant, crisp cider we make in November is hoarded in the freezer just as long as we can stand to keep our hands off of it. I drink more than my share. It is heavenly.
February 2015: It will soon be time for my annual pruning of the trees, just before they awaken from winter dormancy. The apple trees are big now, and can support the weight of the bears that sometimes help with harvest. This year, some of the joy of the annual tradition will be missing. I have been sleeping alone. By the time the trees are festooned with little green apples-to-be, I will be gone from the farm. The apple trees will no longer be mine to prune, to watch over and to harvest. I am giving to my soon-to-be-former wife everything I own—house and land—for I want her to be secure as can be. I will uproot and cast myself to the wind. I already suspect it will be hard, though time will demonstrate that I really don’t know the half of it.
February 2016: I dream of apples. Uprooted, I no longer have a connection to the land. I am not self-reliant in the farmer way. I have no dependable store of apples and apple sauce set by. By ordinary financial reckoning, I am living in deep poverty. I stand in the grocery store, staring at the apples, and despite their waxed commercial gloss, I want one. I crave fruit. But I cannot buy any. The power bill and rent must be paid, and it will take every bit of available cash and then some. Things are belly-pinching tight. I have missed a lot of meals, and have shed every bit of fat. I am sustained by hope, love, and my efforts on an audacious plan to build an enterprise, with which to work my way back to wholeness and financial stability. The next time I can afford an apple, it will be doubly sweet.
February 2017: The audacious plan seems to be working. We are not out of the woods yet, but there is a light in the distance, and it is getting closer. Yesterday, we raided the already depleted change bowl again, just to get gas money for the car, so that we can carry out the next day’s tasks in the audacious plan. One day at a time, indeed. Today, once again, I cannot afford to buy an apple, but it is different than it was a year ago. This winter we have had apples enough to still the cravings. We picked apples from the abandoned trees on the outskirts of this old mining town and in the countryside around; apples of ancient yellow, gold, rose and crimson varieties that I had never seen before, but which prove their viability by surviving untended, and demonstrate their historic appeal with a wide palate of textures, sweetness and fragrance. We are sustained.
February next: I will work my way back. I will fight my way out of poverty. I will go further; I will create with my partner something remarkable, an enterprise that makes a difference. I will again own and care for an orchard, however tiny it may be. I will have a connection to the land. I will plant apple trees. I will care for them, and prune them, and harvest their fruit. A little piece of me will root in their soil. I will be whole.
February future: If Kepler 186f or some other absolutely remarkable exoplanet could be found to sustain apple trees, then I think humanity (if we can figure out how to get there) would have no further argument that it was not a viable new home. If it can’t sustain apple trees, however, then it will always be something less than a new Earth. We come from the planet of apples.