Love in the Time of Climate Change (12 page)

O
FF WE WENT ON A BEAUTIFUL
S
ATURDAY MORNING
in October to Quonquont Farm in Whately to pick apples. It had become an annual fall ritual, eagerly anticipated. When the leaves reached their pinnacle of peak—mapley reds and birchy golds and oaky browns—it was apple-picking time.

I went with Jesse and his new lust, Sarah, one of the nurses from the hospital. He'd been chatting her up for weeks and had finally convinced her to go apple picking. Why exactly I was along was a bit of a mystery, but evidently this was not a “date” but an “outing.” The Roommate, for all his bluster and bravado, was a lot like me: socially awkward and generally scared to death of women.

I was happy for him. He'd been wanting to get involved with someone for a long time. The one-night (or afternoon, as was the case with the Farmer's Market escapade) stand was not his thing, nor, obviously, mine.

The “outing” had certainly started out awkward enough. The whole drive up, Jesse was talking out of his
ass about apples, making a somewhat feeble attempt to impress his non-date.

“I must admit,” he said. “I'm somewhat of an apple snob. But there is something so endearing about Cortlands. They have a crisp, robust flavor, an excellent accompaniment to seriously sharp cheddar.”

I coughed into my hand, stifling the gag reflex but managing to keep my mouth shut. Just before we had left home, Jesse had furiously surfed the net memorizing apropos apple lines. I don't know if these were supposed to be a turn-on or what, but clearly they were not doing the trick.

Sarah stared out the window, visibly bored. I could read the bubble words forming over her head: “I wasted an entire afternoon for this? Why?”

“I've never been one to ogle over Red Delicious.” Jesse continued.

‘Ogle over Red Delicious'? Jesus, enough already. He was sounding like a fruitcake. Even I, spaz that I was, wouldn't come out with a line like that.

“I mean, they have their place, I suppose, but give me a good Cortland any day.”

“What's not to like?” Sarah said, grimacing. “That crisp, robust flavor.”

Oh god, she was on to his bullshit.

Jesse blushed, clearly floundering. He glanced in my direction with a deer-in-the-headlights look. “Help!” He flashed. “Help!”

I had to do something, fast, or this would be yet another one-and-done.

“You know,” I jumped in, “for all of his apple-y good deeds and his preaching of the apple gospel, evidently Johnny Appleseed was one seriously weird dude. I guess he ran off with some thirteen-year-old girl, whose father found out and then went after him. It was all very warped.”

“That's bizarre,” Sarah replied, perking up. “You mean there really was a Johnny Appleseed?”

“You better believe it,” Jesse chimed in, shooting me a gracious “thank you” look.

“John Chapman, a.k.a. Johnny Appleseed, born and bred a few towns over in Leominster. Quite the character. Barefooted, vegetarian, clothed in a coffee sack, orchard planter, proselytizer of apples and the holy gospel from Massachusetts to Ohio.”

The Roommate had done his research on the god of apples as well.

“You like animals, right?” he continued.

Sarah nodded.

“I guess he was quite the animal-rights dude. Story is that he once quenched his campfire because mosquitoes were flying into the blaze and getting burned. ‘God forbid that I should build a fire for my comfort, that should be the means of destroying any of his creatures,' he said. Or something like that.” Jesse used his best Appleseedy voice on that one, weird but effective, eliciting the first real smile from Sarah.

“Another time he slept out in the snow rather than disturb a mother bear and her cubs from the hollow log he was hoping to crash in.”

“A man ahead of his time,” Sarah replied. She was getting into it.

“And apples. Damn if he wasn't the one that made them America's fruit. He'd be like one step ahead of pioneer settlements, planting an orchard and waiting for folks to catch up. As soon as they did he'd offload the real estate, move west, and plant another orchard. Quite the guy.”

“Sounds like it.” she said.

“Did you know apples weren't eaten until like the 1900s or something?” Jesse continued.

“What do you mean weren't eaten?”

“Nobody ate them.”

“Then what'd they do with them?” she asked.

“They drank them. A lot of the water in early America
was unfit to drink, so they'd take apples and make hard cider and drink that. The alcohol content zapped the bad shit. Christ, it was the drink of choice even for kids. Everybody had a buzz on!”

“Seriously?” Sarah asked.

“Seriously!” Jesse said.

I breathed a sigh of relief. Sarah had stopped looking out the window and was looking at Jesse. Things had clearly picked up.

“But did he like Cortlands?” Sarah said smiling, visibly impressed with the wealth of apple knowledge spewing forth.

“Worshipped them. Adored them. I'm convinced they were his hands-down favorite.”

“Along with thirteen-year-olds.”

“Yuck!”

After more idle, apple-y chitchat, we finally pulled off of Whatley Street and onto the dirt farm road leading to Quonquont. It was a winding lane leading up a hill, and dust kicked up behind us and a big sky opened up in front. A Jacob's Ladder moment when the rays of sunlight streamed through the gaps in the gorgeous clouds, looking like a stairway to heaven.

We pulled the car over and gazed in wonder.

A woman, looking somewhat bedraggled and harried, came out from the apple barn.

“Look at the sky!” we gawked. “Absolutely beautiful.”

“It is,” she agreed. “It really is. I wish I could say the same about the orchard.”

“The orchard? What's wrong with the orchard?”

“No apples,” the woman sighed.

“What?” I said. “You're all picked out already? But it's so early!”

“No. I mean no apples. We got no apples this year. None.”

We looked down the hill and onto the beautiful, green
apple trees below. Row after row as far as the eye could see. Healthy, vibrant trees, each one appleless. Not a single piece of fruit on any tree. Not a one.

“Oh my god!” Sarah gasped. “Why?”

“March,” frowned the orchardist. “Remember those ten days of summer this last March? Ten days with temperatures over 80 degrees? Fooled the trees into blooming. And then,
bam!
A few freezing nights in April and the entire crop was gone. Nothing. Healthy trees. No apples.”

Sarah looked like she was going to cry. Jesse put his hand lightly on her arm.

“Bummer,” he said.

“Yeah,” the orchard woman replied, her voice tired and sad. “Big time. No apples. We can only hope for a good crop next year, but with all the weird weather, I don't know. I just don't know. We can only hope.”

No apples?
No apples?

What kind of fucked-up metaphor was this? What a slap to the face to the Apple God himself. Jesus! If Johnny Appleseed were here right now he'd be crapping his pants!

I looked out over the orchard and saw his ghost rising over the barren fruit trees, forlorn and foreboding. I could see him giving us the finger as he ascended Jacob's Ladder. I could hear his voice booming out over the valley, startling squirrels and spooking crows and knocking the leaves off of fruitless trees: “Look around, man. Look what you've done! Do you get it now? Do you? NO FUCKING APPLES!”

I pounded the steering wheel in frustration, accidentally honking the horn.

“Don't go off!” Jesse turned to me. “Please, I don't want to hear it. Seriously dude, think it, don't say it! I don't want this trip to turn into one depressing drag!”

“Say what?” Sarah asked.

Jesse whispered in her ear.

“Just what I was thinking,” she said. “You guys don't like to talk about it?”

“It's all we talk about,” Jesse groaned. “I was hoping for a little bit of a respite. Check the OCD at the door, at least for the afternoon.”

I sighed, visualizing my breath, acknowledging the negative, pushing it right on through to the other side.

Or at least trying to.

But no apples!

Jesus! Had it really come to this?

“How about miniature golf?” Jesse offered. “Not that either of you would stand a chance. I am somewhat of a master at the sport. Similar to what I am in so many sports.”

“Crisp and robust?” Sarah said, giggling.

“More like full of shit!” I said, rolling my eyes and, relegating the climate demons to the trunk of the Prius.

We waved to the orchard woman. I turned the car around, and we drove out of the appleless apple orchard.

Next year there would be apples.

There had to be. There just had to be.

I
T WAS THE MIDDLE OF
O
CTOBER
. Another beautiful New England fall day with the sky blue, blue, blue and the leaves kissing the season goodbye (or was it hello?) with a symphony of color.

The college had gotten its act together and, however long overdue, finally entered the solar age by finishing construction on a 100-kilowatt photovoltaic array behind the East Building. What had begun as a reasonably priced, quick-to-build project had run up against typical state bureaucratic ineptness with excruciatingly long delays, cost overruns, fiscal mismanagement, contractor bungling, lack of communication on all sides, and a general cloud of confusion and bewilderment.

No real surprises there.

Nonetheless, all sing hallelujah! A bit shy of eternity later, there emerged on the south-facing hillside a wonderful harbinger of the new world: 100,000 watts of emission-free solar-generated electricity.

It was a great beginning.

I had been a thorn in the administration's side since the day I was hired, advocating, cajoling, pressuring, begging the college to put our money where our mouth was and begin the long and arduous process of weaning ourselves from fossil fuels and going solar. The problem that reared its ugly head again and again was, while we had a shitload of mouth, we had a pitiful amount of money.

The Development Office had put in a tremendous amount of work and patched together a hodgepodge of funding that included federal stimulus monies and state grants, but it still wasn't quite enough to install the size of the solar electric system we wanted. Finally, after much animated discussion, they had convinced a private funder to step forward to put the project over the top.

The knight in shining armor just happened to be Sendak Oil, the major distributor of fuel oil in Franklin County.

“Oil whore!” Jesse cried, a look of mock horror on his face. It was perhaps the fortieth time he had accused me of that. Each time he seemed to get off on it just a little bit more. If anyone could work a joke to death it was Jesse.

“Who would have thought you'd turn into Satan's slut. After all this good work, to see you prostitute yourself to …”

“Stop!” I begged. “We got the money. The project's finished. How about congratulations?”

“Congratulate you while you suck on the tit of fossil fuels? Go on—slurp, slurp, slurp away. Oooohhh, give it to me, baby!”

“Are you finished?”

“Who's your daddy? Come on, tell me?” he asked.

“Jesus, it's not funny. Particularly after the millionth time.”

“Tell that to Satan. He's laughing his ass off. Counting the days till he fries yours in hell!”

“This is what I love about you!” I told him. “You're so supportive. I work my tail off getting funding for a solar project and this is what I get.”

Jesse danced around the room with finger horns on his head.

“Kiss me, darling! Smooch, smooch! Come on, baby! I have such a hard-on!”

Sigh.

I had to give him credit. He did, after all, have a point. It had taken a considerable amount of angst and a good bit of wallowing in guilt for me to finally get on board with the idea of extracting blood money from the devil. Not exactly my cup of tea, but what's a guy to do? Take the money and go solar, or stick to your guns and remain a 100 percent fossil-fuel addict?

Sigh again.

For all the high-level talk from President Obama on down, community colleges always seem to be a tuition check shy of insolvency. Forever doomed to teeter on the fiscal cliff. Politicians from both sides of the political aisle wax eloquently about the importance of community colleges, their bright future, their remarkable opportunities and vocational pathways and saving graces. But when it comes to funding we always seem to be last in line. It's hypocrisy at its best.

Go forth and do good work, but just don't expect us to pick up the tab.

So we end up having to take money whenever and wherever we can find it. Beggars can't always be choosers.

And it wasn't like Sendak Oil was any Shell or Exxon. They were a pretty dinky local player, a family-owned business with a wonderful reputation for community involvement. It was awfully hard to look a gift horse like that in the mouth, even if they had blood on their hands.