by Margaret Mendel

In my mind fall is apple time. I grew up on a farm in Washington State and my most favorite thing to do in the fall was to sit in the old apple tree growing on the edge of our property when the apples came ripe. I would sit in a low-slung branch, bent like a welcoming arm and dream for hours about what I would do when I grew up. I looked into the branches overhead, listening to the gentle breeze rustling the leaves making them tickle the fat, red apples. Back then I believed anything was possible.