Apple Hill

If I had to write a composition about what I did on my winter break, I would first lament the speeding finale that prohibits any graceful dismount and makes me think for a moment: I did nothing. And, for the first few days I did nothing but grade as quickly as I could, promising to post final scores rapidly. Thus, when it was finally time for adventure, I joyfully drove my friend L–’s four girls and our friend C– packed her car full of girls (and one poor little man) to Apple Hill to get apple cider and unexpected sunshine in the foothills three days before Christmas. The girls in my vehicle range in age from four to sixteen and all were excited for Santa or presents or the upcoming feast or all of the above. In fact, as I arrived at the door, there was a sidewalk chalk dear Santa Letter scrawled inside a large arrow, showing him the way.

Yes, cider and samples of more than a half dozen apples and olives and sauces and oranges is enough to inspire me to make the drive, but my real incentive is the apple wood smoke fire and its sweet smoke that fills my hair, my coat, my scarf, all of the layers of me—and the promise of a whiff of this calming scent days later.

But the just-under-an-hour drive was not calm. The girls were filled with Christmas songs, and they sang in funny voices, in solemn voices, bumbling some words, blaring others all of the way.

Novice tourists to this attraction, they’d hyped it up in their minds, wondered where the roller coasters and other rides were. I worried for a moment that where we had been jingling all the way there’d be disappointment, but there were free fruit samples and this fantastic machine to peel and core apples.

Apple Hill2

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