• Have you ever contemplated a truly good apple? I doubt it. It is not the sort of thing one normally thinks about unless the situation is thrust upon one. One, that is, such as myself. Eating an apple is by no means an exciting or even remotely remarkable event. As I mentioned, it is not something that usually merits contemplation, unless of course, one happens to be hungry and is looking at apples. That is not my case, however. I found myself handing apples to my two younger brothers shortly after arriving home from the pumpkin patch one fall Saturday afternoon. It had been a completely normal Saturday; I had worked until 12:45, eaten lunch, and was preparing for a soccer game at 4pm. I wanted something to eat, not because I was particularly hungry, but more so to give myself something to do that required no thought or physical activity. I grabbed an apple from the box we had bought at the farm and washed and dried it, a force of habit more than anything else. The apple did not have the deep rich red color of store bought apples nor was it particularly large or apple shaped. Instead, it was a light red streaked through with green, small enough to fit comfortably in my palm and almost perfectly round.
    I took a bite. It was like no apple I had ever eaten. It made me feel happy, eating this apple. The back of my mouth tingled with the perfect mix of sweet and sour. This was what an apple should be, but something was missing. And then it hit me. It was so simple and right. This was the kind of apple one ate on a breezy fall day sitting in a tree in an orchard. Why I knew this, I do not know. I spent half of my life growing up in intercity Philadelphia where, I can assure you, there were no good apples, orchards, or wondrous fall days with multicolored leaves dancing about in the wind. Books. Every book that I had ever read where characters ate apples, they were sitting in an orchard.
    I was disappointed when I realized that I had finished the apple. I stared at its bare core and went to drop it in the trash can. It did not seem right. Walking out back of my house, I flung the core with all my might. It landed back somewhere near the creek. I knew that soon little woods creatures would be feasting on the remains of that wonderful little apple, maybe even sharing my amazement at such goodness.
    I felt calm and at peace. I agreed with my family that they were the best little apples any of us had ever eaten. For a while we all just stood and talked, talked about nothing and these talks of nothing brought us closer than we had been in months. Even my brothers, as active as they usually are, sat, with the younger leaning on the older, arms about each other’s shoulders in the epitome of brotherly love.
    It was not long before time found us again and sent us on our busy ways. My mother and youngest brother accompanied me to my soccer game while my father took my other brother to a Boy Scouts meeting. We played against a team we are generally evenly matched against, and this game, which we won, was no different. We ran on to the field laughing and joking with each other and left the same way with many promises of getting together to just hang out. My brother had a wonderful Boy Scouts meeting, as he excitedly told me when he got home.
    And so it was that I sat down to write, knowing not where my pencil would lead. I had thought that a recounting of my soccer game might have been in order, bit it seems that an apple was far more important. I admit that I do not understand what that little apple was so important, but I know that I will always remember it and contemplate its importance. Inspiration comes from the strangest places. Mine is a truly good apple.