War of the Apples

During winter, the old, gnarled, naked crab apple tree gave the appearance it should be shot and put out of its misery; but once spring arrived, it became a thing of beauty.  It sprang to life with lime green leaves, and tiny white, pink tinged blossoms...thousands of them.  Bees did their pollination trick, easily lured by the blossoms sweet and sugary scent and soon the branches hung full of hard, round, emerald green, marble sized apples.

Since the tree was centrally located, in what would someday be a public right of way, we children claimed it as our own.  By mid June we were inspecting the green ‘bullets’ every day, occasionally taking a bite, although eating them was not the reason for our thorough investigation.

One morning, the tree would whisper: ”it’s time”, and like magnets to a refrigerator door, we neighborhood kids were drawn to it.  Plucking the apples and collecting them into piles.  When we were happy with our personal arsenal, we would divide up into armies, and the war would begin.

Back and forth the bullet flew.  Whack, a bruise on the arm.  Twang, a hit at the back of the head.  So it went until all the apples were gone, and our bare skin showed red welts and felt stinging sensations where the apples had made contact.

There can be no doubt; “The War of the Apples” was an annual fun-filled event.  Then, one year, it happened.

The stage was set.

Apples plucked, piles at the ready…’let the war begin’.

Enter:  Corky.

Corky was a black and white bulldog.  His lower teeth hung out, up and over his upper lip, and he looked quite ferocious.  In reality, he was a sweetheart, and he loved to participate in our activity as well.  He would leap, catch the apples mid-flight, give a chomp, and then spit them out.

Poor Corky.  Mid-battle, one of the apples struck him (no one knew who had flung the missile, or exactly where Corky got hit) but, down he went like a pile of bricks and laid lifeless on the battle field.  Truce was called; slowly we circled around, staring in silence at the still, furry heap.

Enter:  Dickey Stevenson.

“You killed my Corky!”  he wailed in ear shattering screeches.  “You killed my Corky!”

We knew we were in trouble...very  huge trouble.

Although we tried to get Dickey to shut up, he would have none of it.  His wails grew louder, his little heart breaking.  With his small, sweaty, dirt covered hands, he tried to lift his precious dog into his arms.

Someone murmured; “Run and get Dickey’s mom.”

Enter:  Mrs. Stevenson.

Dickey’s mom was a registered nurse.  When she arrived on the scene she held a small bottle in her hand.  She bent over and waved the open bottle under Corky’s nose.  He gave a grunt,  he wasn’t dead.  We hadn’t killed him.  I, for one, was more thankful for this miracle than I had ever been for anything in my young life.

Enter:  Mothers.

Ah, yes, mothers appeared as if by magic at the edges of the battlefield.  We all stood in silence, prisoners of war, and a captured army.  Mothers in turn took the opportunity to tell us how dangerous our game was.  “Didn’t we know we could put somebody’s eye out?”  “What were we thinking?”  “You are never doing this again.  Do you understand?”  On and on it went.  Who knew so many mothers could say the same thing, only different.

Now, there are some hard lessons we must learn in life, those that leave lasting impressions, and each year as the tree faithfully passed through the seasons, it was a constant reminder of such a lesson...kind of like, never throw a hot potato at your mother...ahhh, but that is a whole other story.