Mr. Adams’ Apple Tree

Buddy, my dog, and I headed down the trail. He raced ahead of me and over the downhill slope of a hilly rise.

Once over, I saw Buddy getting pets from a man sitting under a wild apple tree.

“Sorry about my dog,” I said as I called Buddy back to me.

“No problem,” he said. “He’s doing what dogs do. I had one like him when I was younger. Called him ‘Sonny.’”

He looked up, squinting because of the sun, and said, “I’ve never seen you before.”

“I’ve never seen you before either,” I said.

He laughed and tossed away the core to the apple he’d been knawing on. Buddy raced over and snatched it up.

“Names Benjamin Franklin Adams.”

“I’m Tom, Mr. Adams,” I said, holding my hand out.

“Call me Ben.”

“Okay, Ben.”

“Pull up a blade of grass and have a seat.”

“Okay,” I said, sitting under the tree next to him.

It was apparent that he wanted to talk. He spoke of life in general, fragments from living in the Spanish Springs Valley, history I had not known, and about the apple tree, we sat beneath.

“This is the last of them,” he said. “I was a kid when I helped Pa plant about a thousand of them. Pa sold the land a few years later, and in a few more years, it’ll be gone, like me.”

After a short pause, he added, “Like to come up here and listen.”

Quietly, I sat and listened too. Nothing. Not the sound of a motor vehicle, no children playing, or even a gas-powered lawnmower.

“Odd for a Saturday,” I thought.

For the next few minutes, we ate apples from the tree in silence. Each core, we tossed across the path to where Buddy lay, enjoying our leftovers.

Then Mr. Adams, Ben, pulled a pocket watch out of the top part of his bib overalls, saying, “Best be getting before all these apples turn into ‘the backdoor trots.’”

It was the first time that I had noticed that we were both wearing bibs. Even more astounding was the pocket watch, which appeared to be exactly like mine.

We compared them, agreeing that only a jeweler would be able to tell them apart.

“Mine doesn’t keep time worth a hill-of-beans, but it’s close enough for government work,” he said.

He started to get to his feet, but I was quicker and offered my hand to help him up.

“Hope to see you again,” he said.

“Same here,” I said.

“We should do more reminiscing under this old tree, and soon.”

“I agree.”

With that, he started down the hill along the trail.

“Come, Buddy,” I said, turning to head back the way we’d come.

Buddy raced ahead of me once again, disappearing over the slope. As I followed, I turned to look at Ben.

He was nowhere.

“For an old dude, he sure can hot-foot it,” I thought.

Glancing at the tree under which we had been sitting, it appeared skeletal.

“Must have eaten more than we thought,” I told myself as I followed in Buddy’s hurried footsteps.

Somewhere in the distance, I heard the sound of traffic moving noisily along the highway, the shrill cry of some children playing, and a gas-powered lawnmower as it came to life.