“Amanda, I hate picking apples just as much as you do!” Steven bellowed, as he and his wife negotiated what her hours of labour in the orchard were to total this weekend.
“Well, if you hate picking apples so much, then why the heck are you an APPLE FARMER?!” she cried.

This is an excerpt from a “discussion” that I had with my husband last night. We are both tired and feeling over-extended with our work and committments, etc. And it’s harvest time. I was under the impression that the present round of picking would be done on Friday and that I’d have a chance to get caught up on the things around the house that desperately need doing. I was thinking that I’d be able to use Saturday to get ahead, and feel like things were a little more under control. How foolish I was! Of course the picking has been extended to the weekend and I will be out there, with a big heavy bag strapped to my paunch, while the layer of mildew in our shower thickens by the minute. What can ya do?

Living on an orchard has both its beauties and its blemishes. I think of picking on the weekend as one of those blemishes. A blemish that is red, and swollen with a glistening white head of puss, begging to be popped and go spraying all over the mirror.