Grandpa Howard told me a story that when he was a small boy there were two orchards at his own grandfather’s place.
In the old orchard only a few trees remained. A certain tree standing apart from the others had medium-sized yellow apples, which, according to his tastes were edible before maturity and extra good when the green had turned to gold.
Years later, although he had outgrown the green apple stage, he went on a last visit to the tree now standing alone in a cornfield. The apples were ripe and several were on the ground. He put some in his pocket at once, without tasting any until starting away. To his surprise they were sour and not like the old-time flavor, so it seemed. He tossed them away realizing another childhood dream had faded that day.
Interestingly, I had a very similar experience at my Grandpa Adler’s with a Macintosh tree growing in the back fence row.
Grandpa Howard told me of the time that he had envisioned living in the Wild West. There were unbroken colts in the woods pasture near his house that were big enough to work. Grandpa watched them from time to time and fancied it would be thrilling to ride one of them without saddle or bridal. One midsummer day when they came for a drink of water, a beautiful sorrel filly was standing alongside the wooden trough. That supported the opportunity to ease on her back while she was drinking. She gave a snort and away they all went. Grandpa managed to hold on to her mane for a little while, but the sailing got too rough with the inevitable result. Luckily no bones were broken.
We didn’t have horses. In my similar story, I would ease down through sleepers in the hay mow to ride our Herford steers, with the same inevitable result and no bones broken.
He told me that if you have never had the opportunity to slide down a new straw pile, or skate on the pond when the ice was smooth, and if you have never brought red apples to school for your girlfriend when you were 10 years old, then you’ve missed some boyhood delights. Although I have slidden down a new straw pile and skated on the pond, I missed the red apples/girlfriend event.
He thought these events were no more unusual than the experience of the average boy who is active, imaginative, inquisitive, and adventurous and must meet some disillusions along the way. He told me while the player may not reach his goal, if he has played the game fair and tried hard to win – though uncrowned – he is nevertheless a king. Many of his stories of boyhood were very similar to my own.
Grandpa would recite the poem of Oregon’s Poet Laureate:
Great is the man with sword undrawn,
And good is the man who refrains from wine;
But the man who fails and yet fights on,
Lo! he the twin-born brother of mine!