We got rained on a little bit this year, but we managed to pick our bag of marginally blemished apples that were only 40% bruised by the kids' rough handling.
Colin scooped up the most shriveled, rotten, teeny apples he could find on the ground and carried them around like prizes. Oliver discovered a big stick and walked around with it, endangering his and others' lives. Jared ate his one and probably only apple of the year, and then walked around regretting it while scratching his itchy mouth.
In other words, this year was pretty much like every other year. The faces in the pictures are older and the plywood photo prop has faded, but we're still the same exact people picking apples from the same exact trees.
Next year we'll go back to the same orchard and find those same trees still there, laden with perfect (imperfect) apples with our names on them. Oliver and Colin will have grown, but I won't realize it until I look back at this year's photos. And the year's before that. And the year's before the year before that.
Next year we'll pick our apples and I will come home and unload the camera's memory card and think to myself, how did we survive another year already? But somehow we did. Somehow we survived and we have these smiling photos of our family traditions as proof. Don't ask me how, but our crazy system must be working.
Cheers, Minnesota Harvest. See you again next year.