Little feet in little shoes paused in the street.
There was a loud clank, then a fsssst of air as the school bus shuttered its doors and rumbled down the street. The neighborhood kids stampeded around her, everyone on their way to unbothered afternoon snacks and an hour of PBS. She shuffled to the grass as she took stock—jeans from Walmart with faded knees, a green scrunchy in her hair, a purple scrunchy on her wrist, her jacket slung over an elbow and two backpack straps re-fastened over her shoulder. A breeze filtered through loose leaves before circling her face, tracing the lines of a scowl forming between her dimples. Today had been great until five minutes ago.
Only halfway satisfied, she began to stomp up the hill toward a cul de sac with her bruised ego in tow. Her friend Courtney turned around briefly to give her a sympathetic look, then charged back up the hill. The girl spent most rides being perfectly happy staring out the window daydreaming. She was doing just that when suddenly two feet wearing faded black and white Pumas flew straight into her shoulder. Recalling the memory, she craned to the back of her backpack and ripped the “kick me” sign off of it, balling the yellow paper between her fingers.
Fifth grade boys were vile. Who does that to a third grader, anyway?
She reached the culdesac and turned right. Her stomps intensified, each shake against the ground angering the hornets nest in her chest. She considered giving the next person she encountered an earful about the injustice that just occurred, but who was she kidding? She’d figure out how to be mad about it quietly like she always did.
Her sneakers scuffed into the third driveway. The wind picked up again, with the fickle coolness of a Missouri October soothing the red in her cheeks. She used her wrist to clumsily brush her bangs from her eyes as she reached the porch. Her other hand grasped the handle of the green storm door. Just as she opened it, a scent greeted her that stopped her in her tracks.
Cinnamon.
The Groom sisters were here.
With new excitement, she yanked open the storm door and passed into the entryway. She quickly shoved a foot over one shoe, then wobbled as she did the other, arranging the sneakers by the coat closet. She set her backpack and jacket next to her shoes—this was Joyce’s house after all, and shoes and backpacks had a place. She eyed Sandy, Joyce’s elderly dachshund, before deciding better of it and kept going (Sandy was a short dog in a tall world and therefore had a strict “no kids under fourteen touch me” policy that no one had any intention of testing). She slid through the dining room in her socks, passed the pile of apples on the table, and turned left into the kitchen before abruptly stopping against a sea of bustling aprons.
They parted as a chorus of voices shoo’d her to the kitchen table. She plopped down into the chair as a plate with toast and warm apple butter slid in front of her. “Don’t tell your brothers,” Joyce said as she winked. They would be stuck with refrigerated apple butter.
Sometimes being the quietest sibling had its perks.
The girl sank her teeth into the toast and took in her surroundings. A giant pot bubbled on the stove. Spices dusted one of the counters. Coils of apple peels were piled into every open corner. Sugar and nutmeg wove its way through the air and tickled her nose. Jars nearly full of applesauce rested next to rings of mason jar lids. A spoonful of flour had escaped to the floor. Two worn washcloths dangled over the sink, and the counter next to it was decorated by the piece de resistance—the giant, industrial sized apple peeler.
The girl looked at the appliance greedily as she listened to feet shuffling over the linoleum. The sharp prongs and shiny red handle greeted her eyes, responding in a silent taunt. One sister shoved an apple onto it and turned the crank, obliterating the core and skinning the fruit in a matter of seconds. The remains were discarded, then another apple pushed onto the prongs.
It was never clear how many Groom sisters would be present for apple processing day, or if apple processing day would happen every single year. They came from a family of fourteen children and descended from a matriarch affectionately famous for her common sense. They scattered all over the country, and their professions were all over the place. Some were teachers, others were office admins, still others were homemakers and caretakers. One still lived on the family farm, where maybe one or two fruit trees remained catty corner to the strawberry field. But every once in a while, time would blossom for enough of them and 3, 4, sometimes even 5 would crowd someone’s kitchen to make an ungodly amount of apple flavored things.
It was an excuse to get together, really.
The girl brushed crumbs on to the plate and licked a sticky spot from her pinky. She debated the best way to make it to the sink when a hand shot out and motioned toward her plate. She was traded a damp washcloth, where she quickly wiped down the table, and handed it back. The sister in front of the peeler turned to her, noting the shine in the child’s eyes, and asked; “do you want to try it?”
Abruptly forgetting her manners, the girl cheered and hustled over to the counter. She was handed an apple, and hands gently helped her to push it onto the prongs. Others made sure that her fingers were far from the blade, double checking that the thing was still securely clamped to the counter in the process. The girl looked up expectantly, and was given the go-ahead. She cranked, and rings of apple peel spooled toward her. She gasped in delight, and asked for another. More hands helped her pry the fruit away and quickly produced a trash can for the remains. They repeated the process once more—push, crank, squeal, trash. After the third she was handed an apple slicer, a cutting board, and a bowl to make quick work of the apples she just peeled.
The afternoon wore on like that, with hustle and tastes and interruptions. After her 6th or 7th apple the girl became distracted and wrinkled fingers gently scooted her into the living room to watch Arthur. It was perfect timing, as one brother swung open the green storm door to take her place at the table.
They had about 20 minutes before their mother would pick them up. When she did, a jar of apple butter was handed off along with chatter about who was doing what these days. The imprint of kitchen smells followed them all the way home.
I never overestimated my place in the legendary Groom lineup. I knew my spot. I wasn’t technically a grandchild, but somehow we’d all get smooshed into the gigantic gaggle of children running amok anyway. They were one of many who were present for the small, normal things. I tagged along to birthday parties, family reunions, cookie decorating marathons, and random afternoons at any given kitchen table. I never had to remind them of my name, or tell them who I belonged to. They pushed us outside to play, and yelled at us to stop screwing around when the neighborhood-wide capture the flag game went rogue. One knew what grade I was in every time she visited—I never had to remind her. Another gave me basic sign language lessons when I asked. Yet another sewed me a hand-made tote. They listened in on grade cards, and hair braiding lessons, and gave anyone around a front row seat to apple butter making.
I vaguely remember learning a line dance or two, but don’t quote me on that.
For me, it was always a village, full to the brim with women who did all kinds of things—and it never took that much to make it.
Maybe just a little cinnamon. And a dash of nutmeg.
