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Apple Orchard Lane

carriesuepepper • Jan 06, 2019

There’s a little yellow house set back in the trees near a lake; it’s rundown and available for a song. I just need to find it. The front porch sags a bit, but the bones are strong and the black and white linoleum in the kitchen still has a sheen to it. Outside the kitchen window, lilacs and wisteria grow in tangles and there are footprints in the cement near the step; little girl foot and handprints; the name and date aren’t visible anymore. I open the back screen door and there’s a rush of pungent weeds filling my nostrils; through the trees, I can see a sparkle of water and even though it’s too far to see, I know there’s a little dock down there with an old rowboat tied up, probably not seaworthy any longer, but it’s there, bobbing in the chilly water. This little place has been sitting for at least 20 years, waiting for hands on the doorknobs and feet on the linoleum, for the smell of coffee to waft through the lilacs and warm old fashioned music to curl around the corners and fill all the rooms, making those spirits that still linger here feel at home and happy. Apple Orchard Lane.

Along the threshold on the closed in porch, there’s mud and fluff, possibly from sheep or llamas being sheared, old ropes hang on the wall and a (Tennessee?) license plate rusted. Down the hall into the bedroom, I feel the energy and warmth of a brass bed with a yellow and white comforter, now moved along to wherever the family went; but the squeak, the feel and the softness of the cloth stitched together, still hangs in the air. I feel the arthritis in my fingers and imagine the quilting frame on the table with women around, chatting, tea cups and lemon cake.

Out in the back, under weeds and brush, is a brick patio, nicely laid, no cracks. I’ll clear out the brush and set my blue and green and yellow pots at the corners, fill them with poppies and coriander. Paint will be needed for the house but not now. Now, it’s just time to visit the house, feel it, smell it. The little town needs a newspaper editor; just 3 days a week, and just enough to pay for the monthly rent/mortgage payments. I’ll land that job, no problem.

Possibly this is a silly exercise, but I am sitting here and that little house is sitting THERE… it is there and it is calling out to me. Somehow, I will find it or it will find me.

The post Apple Orchard Lane first appeared on Carrie Pepper.

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By Carrie Pepper • 30 Nov, 2023
Out on my morning walk, street signs acted as memory joggers. Perhaps they were nudges so that I could remember, and be grateful for, these two women who were there for me as a kid. BRADFORD was the first sign. Grammy Bradford. I never called her anything else and I have no idea what her first name was, but I do remember she was there to tend to me when I was little while my mother went off to work at her government job "in procurement," which she hated. I know nothing, really, of what she did there, but I do remember the room. It seemed there were hundreds of desks in this huge room, no partitions. Dark grey desks and heavy black telephones. I visited her there a few times and she'd give me tablets and pens to keep me busy. I was ALWAYS thrilled to have a tablet and a pen! What she did there is a mystery to me, but when she and my father would argue, which was often, she'd always say, "I want my own money," and so off she went to work every morning at the Defense General Supply Center. He told her she didn't need to work, that he could support her, but, again, she wanted her own money. Back to Mrs. Bradford, Grammy. She was a bit on the heavy side (which I thought made for the best, most cuddly hugs) with long grey hair that she wore up with tons of bobby pins. She always wore a floral bib apron with large pockets and she'd fill them with pears when we'd go to that special corner of our back yard. Oh the smell! Those yellow pears and the carpet of yellow leaves. Memories of Grammy Bradford brought back memories of Thelma Massenburg. She looked exactly like Aunt Jemima (OH FOR HEAVEN'S SAKES, we can't say Aunt Jemima anymore!) Recently a friend told me he'd made pancakes and I asked what kind of syrup he used. When he said, "Pearl Milling," I thought it sounded kinda cool, but when I looked it up I found out it was the new name for Aunt Jemima syrup. SERIOUSLY? Anyway, she was wonderful. She cleaned our house, scrubbed the floors and walls and worked harder than anyone I'd ever seen. I loved her. She always wore a bandana tied around her head. She lived in a tiny reddish tar papered house with ten children. Who knows where they all slept! She was diabetic and I was a little stinker and liked to tease her with Hershey Bars. I'd wave one in front of her nose and she'd smile and say," "You bad, chile." The last time I saw her she was in the hospital and her eyes were very, very yellow. Liver disease. The scarf that was always wrapped around her head was gone and I am sure that I could hear her say, "You bad, chile," although she probably didn't. Thank you my sweet Thelma. My Aunt Jemima.
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