I have an inexplicable urge to collect things. Not necessarily for keeping, but for the actual act of collecting. Finding, gathering, sorting, arranging, organizing. Then eventually disposing in a way that’s appropriate for whatever it is I’d collected. Because, working against this urge to collect things, is a near-pathological fear of being crushed under things. This seems to be a defining characteristic of millennials, which is an identifier I proudly claim in this very specific circumstance. We crave minimalism.
Last weekend, for a mid-fall treat, I tagged along with Jake on a trip to the local Scout Camp so he could do some maintenance there. As Jake settled in for a long morning of dusty mowing, I was left to my own devices. I explored the area near our cabin where I delighted in the novelty of freshly fallen hedge apples. Immediately and without much conscious thought, I set about collecting them in what could only be described as the world’s least-challenging Easter egg hunt.
For those unfamiliar with hedge apples (an absurd concept for a native Nebraskan, which I am most certainly not) I should first point out that they do not grow on hedges, nor do they resemble apples at all. Instead, they are the approximate size and, more impressively, color of a softball, with a rough and almost brain-like texture. They drop none too gently from Osage trees every fall, like a slow-release technicolor hail storm from hell.
If Isaac Newton had been hit by one of these, he’d have died instantly, and we’d be walking around watching things fall to the ground without the slightest inkling as to why.
As far as I can tell, hedge apples don’t serve a specific purpose beyond the reproduction of their own trees--those self-serving buttheads! However, they’re popular fall decor in Midwestern homes, and are rumored to help deter spiders, mice, and other pests seeking refuge from the winter weather. I am suspicious of these claims as several hedge apples were covered with cobwebs and beetles, and many seemed to be gnawed away at by various forrest rodents.
Methodically I scrutinized each hedge apple, examining it for signs of rot or other undesirable damage, pausing occasionally to gape at and admire wooly worm caterpillars who claimed a few apples as their own.
The ones that passed my rigorous test were put in paper grocery sacks, which were not up for the task of carrying that much weight. Instead, I loaded the busted bags, and heaps more apples, into the Franken-bin.
Franken-bin is a yellow storage bin with a layer of white ash on the bottom and four wheels roughly installed underneath, which I found in a nearby shed. I can think of no better representation of Scout Camp, which as a whole is an unusual, albeit charming patchwork of 64 years of assorted contributions of time, materials, expertise, money, and ingenuity.
With the help of Franken-bin, I proudly hauled 120 hedge apples 200 feet to my vehicle. From there, I sorted them 12 at a time into 10 plastic grocery bags that stretched and sagged under the weight, but held up well enough to be loaded into my trunk.
Over lunch I explained to a very dusty Jake, who could have fathered Peanuts character Pig-Pen, that we will bring the hedge apples back to the city where I will sell them for a dollar per piece, 5 dollars for six, or 10 dollars for a dozen. Not only that, but I intend to donate the money back to the camp, because selling goods that never belonged to me in the first place felt rather unethical.
At this he sighed and slightly but noticeably rolled his eyes. Because he didn’t outright say “no,” I interpreted this response to mean, “Wow - how clever! Thank you for your creativity and generosity. I love you a lot and am really glad I married you, and now have the privilege of driving more than 100 pounds of sappy hedge apples back home with us.” That’s the thing about Jake--he’s not very expressive, so I have to read between the lines.
And, boy, should he be glad I did. A week later and I’ve sold 15 whole dollars worth of hedge apples, which will be a nice fat financial cushion for camp, and have only 108 of my original 120 left. They are taking up residence on our porch in their sticky plastic sacks until such a time I've decided I've had enough of them, in which case they will be disposed of in the compost pile where I can watch the literal fruits of my labor rot into oblivion.
But, I haven’t seen a spider in days!
You’re welcome, Jake.
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