It grew, ancient, wild and unattended, never pruned or shown a lick of care. It bore hard green apples, delightfully sour.  Many hours of a summer’s day were spent clambering among its branches, perfectly spaced such that a boy could climb it comfortably with just the right amount of danger from falling.  It was a play haven where one went to be apart form all that was settled in the world. It set just far enough into a small wooded lot to be shielded from casual observation.

     Here was a fine vantage point that overlooked a nearby garden.  Old man Loren could be watched as he plucked Japanese beetles from the tall fronds of the mature asparagus plants late in the spring.  Dropping them one by one into an old coffee can, half filled with kerosene.  It provided shelter from our friend Elmer when we laughed at his antics, dancing and shouting, after he unwittingly disturbed a yellow-jackets nest, riding into it on his bike.  The small hard fruits provided him with relatively harmless ammunition to appease his temper. We were friends, after all.

     The shady breezes and scents of the nearby dairy farm, unpleasant to some, but strangely sweet to those who grow up with it, endures in my thoughts.  Events surrounding my boyhood spent in that wooded lot, with its treasured tree, still bring recollections of lazy summer days to my mind, memories that linger as something good, very good.