Apples and sauce

Our eldest granddaughter is eight years old.  Every September, for as far back as her memory can take her, she and her Papa have made applesauce with the apples harvested from the tree in our backyard.  It has been a tradition, a date they both looked forward to all summer as they watched the apples ripen. 

It’s not surprising this little girl began to worry about the apples back in the dry heat of August, they were ripening even without Papa here to watch. Who would pick the apples this year? Who would make the applesauce?  When you’re eight these are worrisome questions.  When you’re eight and have recently lost your Papa these questions can keep you awake at night. 

This little girl is sensitive, she has felt the loss of her Papa deeply.  During the day she puts on her brave face and gets on with her little girl life; third grade, ballet and playing with her little sister.  At night she cocoons herself in a blanket that was Papa’s and falls asleep wrapped in an imagined hug. She misses her Papa every night just before she falls asleep.

She is the grandchild who will hold the most vivid memories of her grandfather, she was the one who knew him the longest – she was seven and a half when he passed away. Chances the memories of Papa will remain vivid, or even remembered, by any of his granddaughters aren’t terrific, they were all so young when he died.  The task of keeping those memories alive falls to us adults, we hold the paint brush, the children are the canvas — this past weekend the apples were the paint. 

The apple tree produced a bumper crop this year. The apples were larger, redder and higher on the tree than ever before – it took a team to harvest them and an eight year old to direct the process.  Papa’s spirit was with us as we picked the apples, he showed up in the tradition and in the face of the eight year old who wanted to remember.  He was in the commitment of the family keeping his memory alive.