What page did I find in Granny Jay’s suitcase this week?

Entry found in journal - The Orchard years.

This evening I walked through the orchard just as the sun was slipping behind the mountains.

There is a curious hour when the fruit trees seem to hold their breath.

The day’s warmth still clings to the branches, yet the evening air has begun to cool. The apples carry their sweetest scent then, and the last of the bergamot blossoms drift gently upon the breeze.

In the distance I could see a small fire burning.

One of the orchard hands was tending a pile of old prunings gathered after the harvest. The smoke rose slowly through the trees, carrying with it the scent of warm wood, dry earth and the day’s honest work.

It struck me how perfectly the fragrances belonged together.

Sweet fruit.

Fresh leaves.

Warm timber.

A quiet fire at day’s end.

I mentioned this to Oom Hendricks.

He nodded as though he had known it all along.

“Every orchard,” he said, “has two seasons.”

I asked him what he meant.

“The one where everything grows…”

“…and the one where everything becomes useful.”

I thought about that for quite some time.

The fruit feeds a family.

The wood warms a home.

Even what appears finished still has something left to give.

It reminded me that strength is seldom loud.

Sometimes it smells of apples, smoke and old cedar carried gently on the evening wind.

— Granny Jay

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