But in addition to curling up with soup, needles and thick socks, fall means trips to the farms! Living in Oregonian suburbia that butts up next to Willamette Valley farmlands, we have berry picking in the summer, apple farms and pumpkin patches in the fall, and after Thanksgiving there are more Christmas tree farms than you could shake a stick at (which you wouldn't, because your stick is actually a fragrant pine bough from one of these farms). Last weekend Alton, Andy and I took advantage of clear, sunny skies and hit the apple farm.
The pictures of Alton at this apple farm are hilarious. If you have ever spent any time with the young squire, you know that he has a very studious look to him. He spends a great deal of time in contemplation, taking in his surroundings, and prefers to explore a new thing thoroughly with his eyes before making physical contact. Andy and I have each burst into laughter at the sight of the other parent reading to Alton, because when he is sitting in your lap you can't see the furrowed brow and intense look of concentration he gets when he is scrutinizing the book in your hands. He peruses every picture and word on the page, appearing to memorize their positionings while simultaneously absorbing the narrative you are reading aloud. He looks like he's performing surgery.
The apple farm was definitely a place worthy of Alton's focused gaze. Swarms of children flew over the property, partaking in haybale mazes, face painting, and a giant jumpy house in the shape of an apple while Alton waited soberly at the edge of the field, taking careful note of everything around him. He stood carefully with Daddy at the pigpen, watching the little oinkers snort around in their straw and scarf down food.
He took time to inspect the tractor pulling the wagon we rode around on, and took in every acre of the farm on the trip around the property.
If you take his studious gaze to be one of fear, concern, or dislike, however, you would be mistaken. He simply likes to take it all in carefully before he heads off to enjoy himself unfettered. He inspected the haybale maze with Daddy, then blithely took off at the entrance to complete the entire route by himself.
The wagon rides were unlimited, so we went around for a second trip, with Alton all the while excitedly calling out "Dack-dor!" (tractor). We had to wait awhile on the wagon for our turn because we were the only "customers" at first, so Alton had a blast inspecting the bed of the entire thing and climbing up and down from the benches inside.
By the end of our morning at the farm, Alton had thoroughly enjoyed himself. He made repeated beelines for the pigpen to say hello to the cute, big-eared little sows, adorably chirping "Piddie! Piddie!" at them. He had mastered the haybale maze and given a hearty smack to almost every pumpkin in the nearby cluster. It took great powers of distraction to dissuade him from a third tractor (dack-dor) ride, and indeed from spending the whole rest of the day in total tractor worship and contemplation, like the devotees of yore.
We returned home with a small cache of farm apples (our shortness of cash unfortunately dictated the size of our cache) and that afternoon I made a pie, leaving three of the apples for our (Alton's) consumption. The next day I planned to make pasta with meatballs for dinner, and a quick glance at the clock told me that if I wanted the sauce to be finished with its requisite two hours of cooking time according to Nonna's recipe, I would need to get started soon! With an apple slice in each hand, Alton happily relaxed into his high chair, which was dragged into the middle of the kitchen while I did my sauce prep. I began mincing garlic and dicing onion, only to figuratively strike my forehead in frustrated forgetfulness (try saying that five times fast). In the last few months I have switched from being a full-time contact lens wearer to glasses around the clock, and I can never remember that without my lenses in, slicing onions actually hurts! With contacts in, I could hack away on the cutting board as long as I liked, with no stinging, watery eyes to interfere with my work. But now with glasses I have to stop and curse and either rush through the chopping (a good way to lose the tip of a finger, eh, Andy?), or find some way to quell the ocular irritation.
On this occasion, I hastily set down my knife and quickly rooted in a cabinet for some matches before rushing into the dining room and grabbing a fat, white votive candle. I sniffled and blinked my poor eyes as I hurriedly lit the candle, set it next to the cutting board, and ran the match under a stream of water to toss it in the trash. The candle's tiny flame not clearing the onion fumes expeditiously enough for me, I snatched it up and quickly passed it under my face several times, counterclockwise. I breathed deeply and took up my knife to finish cutting my onion, noticing Alton's interested gaze as I did so. He contentedly munched his apple slices, apparently at ease with his mother performing what appeared to be some kind of pagan kitchen fire ritual in front of his eyes. No doubt he was filing it away for future discussion fodder on Oprah's couch; you can get the full details in his memoir.
Happy Fall!
3 comments:
My mom was just telling the story to Julie and I . About how when Steve was lost, how she found him in a crowd. He would either have his hands on his hips or would be standing with his nose up in the air. Kinda like he was better then everbody or everything.
Wow!Wow!Wow! That's all I can say about how you can explain such humdrum life experiences with such a flair.I couldn't have laughed harder if I had been there to see all the antics myself. Keep up the good work Rhyne family, we love hearing it.
My favorite is my little man marching into the haybales, alone. "Mother, father, there may be danger. You remain here."
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