There’s a worn out ol’ apple tree out there in Granny’s yard, and it’s about as old as Granny herself. That tree has faithfully gifted us with the best golden apples this side of Clinch Mountain. It looks give out and haggard, just like Granny does every now and then. Now Granny didn’t let what apples the Blue Jays and deer didn’t get go to waste. Lord, no. That poor ol’ tree had worked hard all summer to give us those apples, and it would’ve been a shame to let ‘em rot on the ground, Granny told us. So, we ate what we could of those smooth and good apples. We used some for good homemade applesauce, which we’d can up with plenty of sugar and cinnamon, for the coming Winter’s breakfast table and the next Thanksgiving’s apple cake.
Granny liked the bad apples the best, the ones christened with blister spots from the summer sun. The bad apples would almost fall off the tree into your hand, eager to be made into something delectable and worthy. The bad apples make the best pie, Granny would tell us.
Now I related to those apples that Granny liked best. I was a bad apple, too, you see. In a small town, you can’t run from your last name or dig a hole deep enough to bury what your folks did, never mind that you had nothing to do with the old beds they made. Everybody knew what my daddy had done before I was born. Oh, yes. Even if they didn’t say so out loud, they knew.
I recollect the Newberry girl I’d made fast friends with when we were 14, that wonderfully terrible age when we’re all figuring out who we are and how we fit into these oddly shaped, small town pegs. One day, right there in the school gymnasium before class, she asked me, out of the clear blue, “ain’t your daddy the one that shot and killed a man on Big Creek?” Now daddy’s past had never been denied or kept secret from me. “Yes,” I said. One word. I didn’t offer an excuse or an explanation, never mind that it had happened nearly 30 years ago by that time. There’s no excuse for murder. I knew that even then. Daddy was a bad apple, always had been and always would be, and I became one myself by destiny and default. “My mother says I can’t talk to you anymore then,” the Newberry girl said. And that was that.
Nobody is safe from the past.
And, Good Lord, we were all bad apples, I reckon. Granny, too. We’d sit around the kitchen table and slice up those blistered golden apples and talk about everything and nothing under the sun. I got kicked out of the Baptist church for cuttin’ my hair, Granny told us. And then I went and got divorced, and then they wouldn’t a’ let me back in if my hair growed back or not. Folks would talk about Uncle Jimmy, too, and they’d say he goes fishin’ every day and don’t catch nothing but a buzz. And Aunt Margene, she was the most beautiful woman that ever graced these hills in her glory days. She looked open-casket good with her perfectly hemmed pantsuits and bouffant blonde hair and Avon’s Cherry Jubilee lipstick, and always did, but she was a bad apple, too. They was jealous, is what they was, Aunt Margene said as she twiddled at the pearls around her neck. I might’ve looked at the fellas, but I never stole one. If jealous folks wanna find dirt on ya, they’ll dig to China to get to it.
And Mama, well, she was a bad apple from birth. Her own mother had five children out of wedlock back in the 1950s and put them all up for adoption. If you think you got it bad, sister, you need to talk to Mama. She’s been accused of things she never even thought of, and that’s the truth.
Now nobody knew about how Aunt Margene was so eaten up with rheumatism that she couldn’t have stolen some gal’s husband if she’d even wanted him. Or how Granny divorced the grandfather we never knew because he beat the tar out of her and she figured it was more Christian to leave him than to kill him. Nobody considered how Uncle Jimmy had been in Vietnam and, despite having made it back home in one piece, relived his nightmares in the daytime, and his daily trips to the river kept him from losing what was left of his mind.
Granny spread out those sun-blistered, weathered, and weary apples out on the table. They don’t need as much sugar, she said. They’re sweet enough already. And you look at these apples here, ya’ll. They’re bad, but they ain’t rotten. The rotten ones ain’t fit for nothin’ but makin’ the others look bad. Can’t do a thing with a rotten apple. But the bad ones? They’re the best that ol’ tree has to give. They take the blisters so the others can look good.
Bad apples like me and you and Mama know what Granny meant. We sure do.
That poor old tree has worked hard all summer to give us those apples, and it would’ve been a shame to let ‘em rot on the ground. We might we bad, but we ain’t rotten. Lord, no. We still have untouched and pure flesh beneath those blisters, no matter what folks think or say. As kids, we’d flock to get a peek when Granny was taking her pies and casseroles and cakes out of her wood-burning cook stove. Get behind my back, she’d say. And we’d do as she said and cloak ourselves in the shelter of her apron in case a burning ember came a’ flying from the stove. She’d say the same thing to folks that attempted to disturb her peace and put down her children.
Aunt Margene twiddles with her pearls and gives Granny a nod. Uncle Jimmy gives Granny a peck on the cheek and heads to the river. Mama peels the apples, freeing them of those blisters to show the untouched and pure flesh beneath. She smiles. Granny gives them some cinnamon and sugar and a soft bed of lard-leavened crust to revel in, and she places them in the belly of that old cook stove. I reckon that ol’ apple tree will be here long after I’m gone, she says. And I can’t help but recollect that Newberry girl again and again, never mind that I met her nearly 30 years ago by this time. My mother says I can’t talk to you anymore.
Get behind my back. Whether it’s been three decades or three days, that’s some pretty good advice.
We sat there at Granny’s table talking about nothing and everything under the sun. We ate every morsel of that bad apple pie with vanilla ice cream from Deskins Supermarket. It was more delectable and worthy than anything we’d ever had at that table. What I wouldn’t give for another generous slice.
There’s always that canned up applesauce, I reckon.
This is truth written in plain, simple country text. The people that judge you for who you parents are, their lifestyle, for beliefs, skin color, and supposed physical imperfections….that are well beyond your control. At the time it hurts…. Then you realize they are the one with the problem. I have always told my children that the best revenge one can have against people who try to convince you that you are of diminished value is to go forward and be successful and happy! I am sure there are people who knew me in my childhood who are surprised and have been made a liar of. I would love to introduce my reserve Air force Major, flight nurse, son; who is in the process of becoming a nurse anesthetist, and has a happy family and life to a certain teacher was so caustic about him, his abilities to succeed, and asked if he had a different father than my husband. Kharma is sweet!
I live in Hyden , KY – God bless you and I’d be your friend any day !
It’s an extremely cold day here in ” Ole St.Louis” and I am enjoying rereading some of my most favorite stories that you gave gated with us. We were talking at dinner last night and reminiscing about the past and it is true about bad apples. We conversed awhile about the last and the bad apples falling from the tree.
In seems in life we are all compared to apples at one time if another some are beautiful , shiny and bright but are mush like people.
The ones that have spots that grocers don’t seem as perfect for the shelves are the best tasting, delicious apples that we bring to our lips.
It seems our reputations outlive many generations and we pay dearly for the sin of our fathers.
I guess the old saying isn’t true after all. One bad apple doesn’t spoil the whole bunch! I’d be your friend!! Thank you for your enlightening take on life!
My favorite post to see when I go to my e-mail !! Grew up on a small farm close to a small town. Everyone knew everyone else and their ” business.” But even with that I wouldn”t change it for ” big city” life. Still a country girl !! I hope for a book soon !!
I loved your amazing story. I can relate to peeling “bad” apples and making applesauce, apple butter, and apple pies. I was a bad apple because of being bipolar with anxiety. My family was afraid of me because of my anger outburst.
Thanks for making me feel better about being a bad apple.
Anna, your words make me feel like I’m home.
Your stories are always as good as a homemade apple pie!
Anna, you touch my soul with your stories. They take me back to growing up in a small town. Close families, grandma’s cooking, helping mom do her canning and cooking, and dealing with a society that never forgot who you were or more importantly who you were not. If you didn’t have the right last name, you were one of those bad apples for sure.
Wonderful!!! A lot to ponder in this story. There’s an apple tree in our backyard full every July with good and bad apples, just like folks I know. It was there when we bought this place 32 years ago. The former owners said those apples make the best pie filling and applesauce…so right! Thank you for your the depth of your writing.
Hey! I love this still so true if people today..they don’t bother to know the truth just what they hear! God bless all of you!
Thanks once again Anna, I love reading your short stories on your life. I made some bad apple pies last year too! My daughter bought me home the worse looking bag of apples she had picked from a friend’s grandfathers olde apple tree. I cut them up anyway and made pie and applesauce. She couldn’t believe how good the pies were and the applesauce was the bomb! I wish I could have shipped a pie up to the old farmer in Ohio. He told her that tree had been there since he was a kid.
Beautiful. Heartwarming. Haunting.
Daddy kept a list in his mind of all the folks who were “bad apples” and when I got to the dating age, he culled out the candidates based on what their families had done. There were a lot of “bad” families and few worthy, according to my daddy who had been a moonshine runner and hellion.
Dena,
I read your comment that was written on the Anna Wess’s page featuring the story of “The Bad Apple.”
I have a feeling that you are a writer as well , or perhaps you have some good stories to share. If so ,I would love to read them.
If not ,
Thanks, Theresa
Fellow appreciater of Anna Wess’s heartfelt stories
I too am a bad apple. Thank you for putting my feelings into words.
LOVED IT!
On Thu, Sep 14, 2017 at 6:06 PM, Appalachian Ink ~ Home of Anna Wess (and Granny) wrote:
> Anna Wess posted: “There’s a worn out ol’ apple tree out there in Granny’s > yard, and it’s about as old as Granny herself. That tree has faithfully > gifted us with the best golden apples this side of Clinch Mountain. It > looks give out and haggard, just like Granny does every ” >
Hot, buggy, sunny fall days in Middle Tennessee. “Take the dog with you, in case there’s snakes down there.” And smile…. come wash these jars! No one else’s hands fit. Sure glad your mama brought you down here.
You speak to my heart and soul. After my Grandma passed they cut her apple tree down, said it was dying and it probably was. She wasn’t around anymore to pick it’s apples, and everyone else was just too busy to care for the tree. How do you know me so well?
Anna, I absolutely love this!!!! 🍎❤ I hope we meet someday. Love your cousin, Linda
Oh my,wow is right,I was right there in that kitchen with you,took me back.Thank you so much for your beautiful words.
Beautiful story, chock full of wisdom. Thank you from all of us “bad apples”
Your words are like a stab in my heart of truthfulness. I feel your pain and for all of us who weren’t the perfect apples. We are so much better for it. Would never change a single thing. BAD APPLES sounds like the name of a wonderful book. I am waiting.
You brought me memories of drying cut-up apples, outside on old window screens with netting over them to keep off the flies, later used the oven to dry the apples. and still later we used the crockpot to make apple butter and apple cider. I can still smell the cinnamon and I still love apple stack-cakes during the winter holidays.
Wow!!!! Just Wow!!!!!! Better than ANY sermon I’ve heard in a long time!!!!! She sees those apples just like God sees us!!!!!! Keep writing!!!!! I’ll keep reading and loving it!!!! Is there a book?
Much obliged! Hopefully a book pretty soon. 🙂
Looking forward to it! Your stories make me smile! I can relate to these folks! Always get excited when you post your stories! Please keep them coming!!!
I love reading your posts, makes me feel warm and comfortable.
Thank you for your apple pie story, I am always thrilled to get your stories and I share them on my
Facebook page, hope that is all right with you
I was so excited when I saw this new post! I love your writings! They’re so comforting, so full of wisdom, and they instantly take me back to my childhood. I agree that you need to put them in a book. I have one of those knotty old apple trees in my front yard!😏
I love to read your stories as well. Your words just flow, and suck me in. Thank you for sharing.
I was so excited when I saw this new post! I love your writings! They’re so comforting, so full of wisdom, and they instantly take me back to my childhood. I agree that you need to put them in a book.
I get giddy every time I get a notice that a new story has posted. It means I get to feel again. Your words mean something and I don’t get to hear a lot of things that do.
That means a lot to me. Thanks for saying so.
How I love your writings! They touch my very soul.
Nobody is safe from the past…?? Maybe, if you’re scared or ashamed of it, and I ain’t afraid of no past.
Your past, my past, is made of memories like these, some wonderful, some not so much. It’s how we got to be where we are and who we are, and only a fool would think to change any of it.
It’s ours, all of it, and remember, as that old boy Willie Faulkner said once, “The past is never dead. It’s not even past.”
For my part, I’ll keep readin’ it just as long as keep writin’ it.
I always look forward to your reflection. Thanks for everything, as always. 🙂
Beautiful and true, as always. So glad to read your stories again!
I eagerly anticipate your posts and savor every honest word written. Thank you for such food for thought. Barbara
Much obliged, Barbara. 🙂
Yes, please put your writings in a book. I need a copy……….
Thank you. This bad apple loves your work and especially this piece.
Thanks a bunch!
I know all too well the feeling of “my Mama won’t let me talk to you no more”. My own father was killed by my mother in an argument, and I lost both of them that day. I was only 10 months old, but when people found out, it was “my Mama won’t let me talk to you”. Their mother would even call my adopted Mother (my aunt) and make sure she knew and passed it on that I was no longer welcome, regardless of how often we went to church (a lot) or that I was always a straight A student. I was marked, and can’t even count the times I was told “You’re just like your mother”
I love your stories. Will they ever be compiled into a book?
I feel like I could have written parts of this story . Sad but that is life.