Applesauce

My grandma forever ruined applesauce for me. She canned her own applesauce using apples from a tree that grew on my grandparents farm. It was delicious. I could eat quarts of the stuff. I can still see the old wooden steps by the back door that went down to the basement where there was a room full of all of the wonderful things grandma canned. Okra pickles, strawberry jam and rows of golden applesauce were among my favorites. I could write a short novel on the virtues of the strawberry jam as well; talk about legendary. A healthy smear of that strawberry jam on a piece of grandma's homemade wheat bread, heavenly. But the applesauce was like nothing else. And I have yet to taste applesauce like it. Every other kind is just a disappointment. I was 7 when my grandparents sold their farm and moved to town. Selling their farm and moving to town meant the end of the apple tree and the one of a kind applesauce. And while I have wonderful memories of visiting my grandparents after they sold the farm, my memories of the farm are some that I cherish the most. Like the applesauce. Or hanging on the gate waiting for grandpa to finish chores, so I could ride on the tractor with him back to the machine shed. Or walking down to the bridge with grandma so we could plunk rocks in the creek. Or finding the strength to climb the tree where the sack swing hung and then mustering up the courage to jump off and swing. I can still hear my grandpa saying the Lord's Prayer while sitting in the "booth" in the kitchen, and watching the prism twirl in the window and make rainbows dance on the kitchen walls. I can still see the Ohio Blue Tip Matches mural in the bathroom and hear the buzz of grandpa's razor. I remember feeling how tight my grandparents would squeeze me when we first got there, and how the hugs would linger when we would have to leave. How glad I am for these memories now that both of my grandparents are gone. And I can still remember how that applesauce tastes.