Sun, Jun 5th, 2016
The woods where we live is dotted with apple trees. And each is different. One not too far from our house has hot pink apples the size of softballs. Another has yellow ones no bigger than cherries. All of these have recently bloomed, so now the normally green wood full of pine and spruce and maple and birch is filled with trees full of pink and white flowers. And come summer, there will be apples. In the fall, they'll be ready to be picked. However, for all their beauty, you can't eat them. The man down the road nodded when I told him I tried. Oh ayuh. Those apples are spitters. Good for cider. Terrible for a pie.
She is too fond of books, and it has addled her brain. -- Louisa May Alcott