​When I was growing up, there was a resilient apple tree in the middle of my yard. It had a skinny trunk, with even skinnier branches expanding off it. It was a little apple tree, but being an apple tree in the middle of the town, it was the most noticeable thing in the neighborhood.

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Every summer and autumn, my family would have our little harvesting season where we would pick the good apples and get rid of the bad ones. Most of the apples were not what apples were supposed to look or taste like. The good apples, however, created a very nostalgic feeling. They tasted raw, but sweet and fresh. To our family it didn’t matter how good the production of the apples was, but rather the production of the feelings and memories that were made. 

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One thing about apple trees is that most of them grow best when around other trees and in a habitat that suits them. This green-leaved plant grows best with others of its species pollinating it. Most apple farms will have rows and rows of good, tall, healthy trees with apples ready to harvest every fall. The farms will produce tons of different fancy apple species, creating really good apple-themed food. Our singular tree farm didn’t have that ability. The little tree would only produce a few tasty apples per basket, but even with its shorthanded ability, the lone tree would have its perfect moments.

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The hot summer days were the days that the tree would shine its best for us. At the base of the tree trunk, there was a little crevice. It was a nice round spot with a soft grassy bottom, perfect for the two tired little boys who would sit there for a break. The bit of shade the tree leaves provided made the best spot to read a good book or take a peaceful nap. It was a feeling I did not take for granted, sitting in the shade with all of the apples that fell off the tree scattered around me and a nice glass of cold lemonade to drink as I read my children’s book. Once in a while, a nice cool breeze would come through and turn a page of the book for me.

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At the end of summer, before all four members of the family went back to school, my dad, my brother, and I would spend time picking the apples we had been watching grow all summer. It was our favorite time of the year. The anticipation of finally being able to eat the apples we had been closely watching all summer was finally coming to an end. We picked all the apples that we thought had a chance of being delicious. We put them into old white laundry baskets and carried the apples into the kitchen to be washed. My four-year-old brother Kyle, however, had a different plan.

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 Instead of waiting patiently for the apples to be washed, cut, and given to us, he grabbed an apple and excitedly bit in without thinking.  As he looked into the bite mark, I could tell something wasn’t right. Sure enough, there was a worm crawling around in its little apple home.

 

The sheer panic in my brother’s eyes made me burst into laughter. He immediately started to cry, as a normal four-year-old boy would after possibly eating a worm. Kyle learned not to bite into anything until he was sure our Dad checked it first.

 

After we got the tantrum-throwing kid to calm down, we moved on to the kitchen to see if there were enough apples to make my father’s famous apple crisp. 

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If I were to personify our old apple tree, I would describe it as someone who chooses other people’s happiness over their own. The apple tree didn’t live like a normal apple tree should, but it still created a happy and festive feeling for the people who lived around it. To live up to its full potential, the apple tree needed to be in a better habitat, with other trees, and proper nutrients. However, those setbacks didn’t stop it from creating memories for others.

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