The hills are alive with the sound of music . . . and the scent of apples!

Every fall, they would gather apples from the century old apple trees in the fields on top of Wilbraham Mountain, trees planted by their forebears, trees giving fruit to the children and grandchildren of the folks that planted the ancient trees in the rocky ground.  Some children sprayed the trees with insecticide, giving the grandchildren perfectly poisoned apples.  But as time passed, and people passed, so did the spray, and the trees once again were able to gift the children and grandchildren with apples borne of air and water.  More time passed, and the tornado of June 2011 took away that gift.

 
Now in November in the mountains of Vermont, having missed the joy of gathering apples on the top of Wilbraham Mountain, Marash Girl  wandered along the roads and trails of Stowe, spotting the occasional gnarled apple.

And then she looked up. . .

and kept looking up. All over the hills and along the roads and trails were wild apple trees bearing ancient fruit, fruit for the passerby (animal or human), fruit for the eye and the palate.  But it was already November, and the apples on the trees were no longer reachable -- above arm's length on the ancient trees, no ladder in sight . . .  but the occasional apple had fallen (and yes, not too far from the tree). 

Alert to the existence of the wild apples, Marash Girl, in a tarred parking lot bordering a rock strewn stream, spied,  nestled among the rocks, beautiful golden apples.

She looked above her and saw the tree that had shared its apples, still laden with gold, apples within arm's reach.  Climbing down onto the treacherous rocks and reaching up, Marash Girl, like a child who had not eaten for days, filled her pockets, her hands and her arms full of beautiful golden apples, apples from the hills and mountains of Stowe, Vermont. 

Wild organic apples, a gift from the past . . .