My Plight with Apple Picking
A Perspective from the Ground
Apple picking is an essential fall activity that everyone should do at least once in a lifetime. When I was a child I went with my grandparents yearly. I still remember my grandpa lifting me up in his arms so I could reach the higher fruit to put into my basket. I felt like I was flying, that I was on top of the world. I felt like a superhero.
Just last week I relived this exact experience. The only difference is now I’m 23 years old, and this time I was riding on the shoulders of one of my best friends. On top of the world? More like flying high on the winds of shame.
See, the thing you need to know about me is this: I’m only 5’2 — and three quarters! — so even though I’m not as small as I was when I first went apple picking with my grandparents, I’m still… pretty small.
Living a vertically challenged life wasn’t always this hard, though. I prided myself in being an independent woman capable of doing things for myself. I’ve mastered the kitchen counter parkour, perfected the high-jump-and-swipe-an-item technique, and even tightened up my skills in using one of those dollar store clamp extenders — though I typically used it to grab things I was too lazy to sit up and reach for.
All this goes to show that I have embraced and overcome being short. With my height and personality, I was a lovable little nymph. I felt confident in my small stature, comfortable in knocking knees and hiding in tight places. I was invincible.
Until I went apple picking this year with my friends.
It was the first time the ol’ jump and swipe technique had failed me. There was a beautifully ripe looking apple of the shizuka variety. Light yellow with a delicate red-orange blush — it was perfect. I had to have it. I just couldn’t reach it.
My so-called friends watched me struggle through all different kinds of methods to get this jewel of a fruit down from its high resting place. They laughed as my jumps barely broke the half-way point, snorted while I tried gently shaking the tree, only to get bonked on the head by low hanging fruit. I even tried throwing another apple at it, but I missed.
Finally, after witnessing these torturous five minutes go by, my friend Naomi asked if I wanted her to lift me up. Embarrassed, stubborn and determined, I declined her offer. I never needed help before due to being short. I would NOT start now. But as my friends gave up on me and continued down the orchard, I felt a coldness settle in. Looking up at that apple, the sunlight highlighting its delicious red tones, I felt it mocking me. I was never going to get that apple, not if I kept going at it alone.
Feebly, I called Naomi back. “So here’s how we’re going to do this, okay?” I said, and I directed her to lift me up and simply throw me at the apple. This was an insane idea, and she of course refused, instead offering for me to climb her shoulders. I reluctantly obliged.
Propped up on the shoulders of a 5’8 woman — can you believe it — I still couldn’t reach Miss Shizuka. “Jump!” I begged, but Naomi wasn’t having it. It was a lost cause, she said. There are always more apples further down the aisle that are just as good. I didn’t want to admit she was right. I had my heart set on Miss Shizuka. But as she put me back down to earth, I came to my senses. She was right. I had to move on.
I gathered so many different varieties of apple that day, from empire, to jonagold and my favorite — the honeycrisp. It was a peaceful, fun fall day with friends.
But as we drove away from the orchard, in the distance I searched for the rows where Miss Shizuka still sat high. I wondered if she’d grow old there, or if some other lucky tall person would claim her. The thought of the apple of my eye being bit into by some other mouth was upsetting, but eventually I had to let it go.
Next time I’d come back on stilts.
