The Horses and the Harvest

When a particular Beach Boy was young and almost twelve years of age it was harvest time in eastern Tennessee. When the apples began, it was Easter and the big grove next to the barn and the houses was full of apple blossoms and the sweet perfume of springtime. The apple trees were white with flowers and the fragrance was the memory of a lifetime. 

When summer wore on and the blooms began turning into baby apples the horses started to get restless. The horses always knew everything. They knew about the seasons, and they knew about what was coming with every change in the weather. Of course, there was a fence and gates to keep the horses on the hillside pasture, but the horses were horses after all, and when the baby apples began to beckon, the horses would always find a way to get out and find the first fruit of the season. 

The first time the horses got out was in the middle of the night and after the rooster was finally sounding the alarm, most of the low hanging fruit was missing and all of the horses had bloated bellies. 

That afternoon the mysterious break in the fence was on the mend, and the Beach Boy that was the cowboy with the jeans and the boots tempted the horses back to the barn with the sugar cubes that would drive them crazy. 

When summer was in full swing, the family that did not know they had a Beach Boy bought big bags of fireworks for the celebration of Independence Day and when the reaching fingers of fire began climbing into the sky and raining stars, all the animals were running wild—except for the horses. They just stood and watched the apple trees that were aglow in the light of the rocket’s red glare.

The second time the horses got out no one could figure out how they did it. The fences were all up and strong, and the gates were secure with the latches in place. On that morning when the horses were waiting for the rooster to sound the alarm, they were once again wandering in the orchard and reaching high into the trees, but the earlier baby apples were gone and only the fruit that was out of reach was driving them crazy. Of course, on almost every morning, there were fallen apples that were waiting beneath the trees, except on the morning the horses miraculously pulled off the great escape. On that morning, the horses once again had bloated bellies and a few of the bigger ones seemed to have a look on their faces that was suggesting a stomachache. 

As the Appalachian mountain summer continued and as the lighting and the booming of the August thunderstorms began to pour down buckets and force the horses into the barn, the grass in the pasture shot up new shoots chutes as the apples began to bulge with the full ripeness of autumn. On the mornings with fair weather, when the rooster sounded the alarm, the horses were all out in the pasture and mowing the new grass as their tails were swishing and the scent of ripe apples was driving them crazy. 

Finally, when the big apples began to fall from the trees in late September, it was time for the Beach Boy to make apple cider. The process was not simple. Making apple cider was hard and scary work. 

The first part of harvesting and making apple cider was climbing up and onto the big tractor with the wagon attached. Next was to drive the tractor that was pulling the wagon under an apple tree. The next step was to jump off the seat to reach the clutch to stop the tractor, and then hop up onto the wagon and use an apple grappler to pull all the fruit off the tree. There were thirty-five apple trees and about five wagonloads of apples.

Next in the child labor scheme of harvesting apples and making apple cider, came the cider mill. The apple mill was a frightening contraption driven by the muscle system of a twelve-year-old boy. There was a hopper in the mill where the fruit was gathered. The mill was then set into operation by pulling on a handle that began turning a series of scary grinders, which ground the apples into pulp. The shredded pulp then fell into slotted wooden buckets and finally found a place under a hand driven press that would squeeze out reluctant streams of apple juice.

When the scent of the apple pulp and the apple juice began to drift over to the horses waiting by the gates, the swishing tails were unstoppable. This behavior was frantic along with the rapid pawing of hooves, the nodding of heads, and the almost non-stop whinny noises that made the beach boy worry about a break in the fence and an all-out horse attack.

The horses in the coral however were not that scary. They just wanted what they always wanted. The scary part for the beach boy was the yellow jacket bees that also sensed the apple pulp and the juice. After the apple cider making process began, the yellow jackets were swarming everywhere but no one was ever stung. 

After complaining to mother and granny about the troublesome and aggressive bees, the Beach Boy was once again back at the apple grinder along with the age-old Tennessee advice: “The sooner you finish the sooner they will leave you alone.”

After two days of gathering, grinding, and pressing pulp into juice, the yellow jackets began to vanish. The final pulp was given to the ever-wise horses in their pasture, but there was thirty-five gallons of apple cider that went into an oak barrel to make apple cider vinegar and another twenty gallons that mother and granny boiled to make apple juice for winter. On the morning of the first frost, there was always hot apple juice with cinnamon, and nothing ever tasted better.