Gary Jones was born on a small dairy farm that straddles the boundary between Rockbridge and Willow Townships in Richland County, and owns part of the land that has been in his family for four generations. A teacher and a writer, he winters in Platteville and summers in Sister Bay. This November the Wisconsin Historical Society Press will bring out his memoir Ridge Stories: Herding Hens, Powdering Pigs, and Other Recollections from a Boyhood in the Driftless.
First Apples
According to family tradition,
the 100 was originally purchased with the trade of a rifle.
Nearly thirty years ago
I bought it from my father for 500 bucks an acre,
but, I had already made a down-payment with apples.
Someone, maybe the man with the spare Remington,
had planted an orchard on the ridge crest
just to the west of the Rattlesnake Dens,
above the shack that sat in the valley
next to the driven artesian well pipe,
and late every warm blue sky summer
my mother would send me down the road
with a paper grocery bag folded under my arm
for picking the first apples of the season.
No one called them heirlooms then,
the Jonathan, Sweet Russet, Prairie Spy,
the Tolman Sweet, Yellow Transparent, Snow,
an orchard no one pruned or sprayed.
After startling glimpses into the vacant snake caves,
I picked Jonathans while gnawing green Sweet Russets,
lay on my stomach to drink from the water pipe,
and began the slow driftless walk up the hill home,
knowing the first apple pie of the year awaited my return,
never suspecting, as a boy, that the taste of first apple
would later echo across the ridge like a rifle shot,
forbidden fruit poached from an unforgiving family tree.
According to family tradition,
the 100 was originally purchased with the trade of a rifle.
Nearly thirty years ago
I bought it from my father for 500 bucks an acre,
but, I had already made a down-payment with apples.
Someone, maybe the man with the spare Remington,
had planted an orchard on the ridge crest
just to the west of the Rattlesnake Dens,
above the shack that sat in the valley
next to the driven artesian well pipe,
and late every warm blue sky summer
my mother would send me down the road
with a paper grocery bag folded under my arm
for picking the first apples of the season.
No one called them heirlooms then,
the Jonathan, Sweet Russet, Prairie Spy,
the Tolman Sweet, Yellow Transparent, Snow,
an orchard no one pruned or sprayed.
After startling glimpses into the vacant snake caves,
I picked Jonathans while gnawing green Sweet Russets,
lay on my stomach to drink from the water pipe,
and began the slow driftless walk up the hill home,
knowing the first apple pie of the year awaited my return,
never suspecting, as a boy, that the taste of first apple
would later echo across the ridge like a rifle shot,
forbidden fruit poached from an unforgiving family tree.
Sweet Russets
They have all gone away,
sweet russets of my youth,
the apple trees in the hog lot
that I climbed mid-summer
gnawing the green bullets
that clung to the branches,
savoring the bit of sweetness,
as pigs below awaited cores.
Not the only part of youth
that has slowly slipped away,
but memories still remain,
one that is green and golden,
like the jars of apple pickles
my mother canned for winter.
Mowing Orchard
No practical reason exists for mowing my orchard;
I don’t spray the apple trees for fruit,
no children play croquet in their shade,
and no garden parties are planned for their shadows.
Once we hosted a family reunion under our heirloom apples,
another time a college classmate gathering under a canopy,
and in a rented tent, a wedding reception for my son and his bride
but no more.
Faithful dogs from my past sleep in the orchard;
I step gently on their unmarked graves as I push the mower.
My wife likes a mown orchard,
a pleasant view from our bedroom
when she dresses in the morning.
And so I mow from the perimeter drifting toward center,
as if doing penance for past Edenic sins
and banking dispensation for those yet to be committed,
a small price to pay for peace in a garden.
Driftless Terroir (ter-WAHR) is a series featuring guest voices celebrating the intersection of land and culture — the essence of life in the Driftless Area — with topics including art and architecture, farming and gardening, cooking and eating, fermenting and drinking, and more. To read past columns, see voiceoftherivervalley.com. To contribute to Driftless Terroir, e-mail info@voiceoftherivervalley.com.
These are beautiful. You have a strong and distinctive voice. A pleasure to read.