The annual apple weekend is, like many events undertaken by this particular tribe, rife with tradition. If you didn’t already know that, the pre-weekend series of military-style planning emails from Frau Blücher would pretty much tip you off – this weekend is no loosey-goosey, unplanned affair. There is a schedule, people, and despite the go-with-the-flow nature of almost everyone involved, the schedule will be honored.

Base camp is located in Quaker Hill, CT, about two miles from Connecticut College in New London. The current dean of the college and her husband, a physics professor, own the deed to the house, but the Apple Weekend events are orchestrated by others who come and go in an unruly mob. Over time, the owners of base camp have watched the spectacle grow in size to the point where, last year, they declared that no additional participants would be permitted – no one who was not actually sitting at the table at the time of the declaration would be allowed to come the following year, except for people who had been there previously, future significant others of those currently single, or currently unanticipated progeny of anyone present.

Their weak efforts to limit the size of the crowd failed miserably, as this year brought more people than ever before (roughly 35) and the Dean threw up her hands and had dinner catered. As we dined that night on eggplant parm, meatballs, ziti, and soft crusty bread, she confessed that she felt guilty – she had been raised to cook, since her Italian mother had cooked every meal from scratch no matter the size of the crowd, and it just didn’t feel right to her to import prepared food. This is a woman with a doctorate in English literature who is the dean of a college, and who had just spent her day baking fourteen pies and sixteen pans of apple crisp from the apples she had picked from the trees that morning, surrounded by her husband, three well educated and successful daughters, and her grandchildren, all of whom worship the ground she walks on. I am always amazed at what makes people feel inadequate.

Saturday started unusually early for me, since I hadn’t gone up to Connecticut Friday night but instead went out with Dutch till about 2 a.m., providing me with a wonderful hangover Saturday morning. Nevertheless, I was on the road by 7:30, and at 10:00 stopped at a rest area to call Kelley. He was pleased with my progress, and assured me that my estimated 10:30 arrival would not delay departure, as there were still people sleeping and breakfast was still in the cooking/consumption phase. Sure enough, upon my arrival, I found about sixteen people milling around the kitchen, and chafing dishes filled with bacon and pancakes on the counter. I was also very pleased to see Sir William the Loud, who veered away from Jen to run over to me as I walked in. There is no better greeting than a big hug from a two-year-old. I rolled a pancake around a slice of bacon, grabbed a cup of coffee, and promptly joined the fray.

We arrived at the orchard around 12:30 and filled our bags with apples by 1:00. Kelley, Will, Colleen, and I repaired back to the van to listen to the Red Sox lose to the Yankees. After a while, Jen collected us for a hay ride to the pumpkin patch, a transparent marketing effort by the orchard owners, who stopped the hay wagon during each ride for fifteen or twenty minutes to let people look at the pumpkins “if they wanted to.” I opted to remain in the van due to a knee injury sustained during a climb into bed a few days before. (Yes, people, go ahead and laugh -- but you haven’t seen my bed, and you just have to trust me that it’s really, really high. See, what happened was, I have this little set of steps that I use to climb into it. At 5 a.m. one morning, I opted to get back into bed instead of getting ready for work. So I accidentally stepped on the very edge of the steps, instead of the middle, and the steps tilted to one side like a surfboard. Sadly, my efforts to correct on the other side failed miserably, and I landed flat on my back, staring at the ceiling, thinking “that didn’t really just happen, did it?”. The worst part was that, during some moment or other, my knee had apparently bent the wrong way. The screaming pain I felt for the rest of the day abated by the following morning, but a week later I’m still limping and stairs aren’t such a good idea. I figure this’ll last about a month, and then maybe I can think about going to the gym again. God.)

During the hay ride, someone told a story about trolls that live under the orchard bridge and commented that the trolls LOVE to eat little girls with ketchup on them. Lucy just giggled, and someone asked Will what he would do if the trolls were eating his sister. He replied, “I bring the mustard.”  Oy. I can only imagine what Nature Boy would’ve said.

That afternoon, the kitchen crew worked double-time to core, peel, and slice the apples, make crusts and crumbles, and assemble all of this into the aforementioned pies and crisps. All was made much more bearable by the presence of green apple martinis, which were consumed en masse, and by dinner time we greeted the advent of “real” food with enthusiasm. I myself was ready for bed by 10:00, so despite the hordes that remained talking, singing, and laughing in the next room, I inflated the aerobed Colleen had located for me and curled up to sleep on the floor in the sunroom. (I am certain that the Advil, martinis, and lack of sleep the prior night contributed to the ease of my slumber. Nevertheless, people expressed amazement at how much noise I can sleep through, and I do admit I think of it as somewhat of a gift.)

I awoke the next morning at six-thirty to see Sir William about five feet away, staring intently at me as he asked his mother if Linda was coming. So I threw a sweatshirt over my pajamas and joined Jen and Will on a trek to Dunkin’ Donuts – Cape Cod redux, indeed. Upon our return, I awarded Colleen her coffee (and received blessings in return) and sat down to watch Lion King with Lucy as Tom headed out for bagels. I surveyed the damage – bodies strewn on every available surface, open duffle bags dotting the floor near each makeshift bed, blankets/pillows/clothing draped across chairs and in piles – in short, a vision of total chaos and comfort. I once asked Tom if he ever got tired of having his home invaded so often in this way, and he replied that he actually missed it. And he and Theresa do seem to truly enjoy the cacophony, and so I stopped feeling guilty about contributing to such a mess whenever I show up.

While we waited for Tom to get back with breakfast, I took Will outside to play. He caught sight of the Doyle family van down in the field, where many of us had parked to alleviate the driveway-jam, and he expressed deep concern that the “blue car” was so far away. I assured him the blue car was all right, but it was not until he ran down to the field and saw all the other cars there that he smiled again. He actually hugged the van, spreading his arms wide and pressing the side of his face and his chest to the front fender. Kelley told me later that yes, Will really does love the blue car – and I believe it. Will seems particularly tuned in to all cars, and Kelley tells me that whenever Will sees a blue Passat, he asks if it’s Linda. Tom says this is because the Y chromosome has wheels on it.

Around noon, I decided it was time to go. Base camp runs on well water, and given the drought and the size of the crowd, Tom had declared a moratorium on showers for the weekend. Frankly, I was craving a good shampoo. I hugged everyone good-bye (a lengthy process), climbed into my car, and headed south.

The next day was Monday, and I took the afternoon off to meet my parents at my house. They arrived at noon with a van full of dogs, furniture, and light fixtures, and we got right to work installing the chandelier and unrolling the new rug while the dogs terrorized the neighbors outside. Around 4, Dutch called to tell me he had come home early and could help us get the chairs out of his attic around 5:30, so while Mom and Dad took a break, I ironed the chair covers. At 5:25, I popped my take-home pan of apple crisp into the oven and we trekked across the street, where Dutch gave us a tour of his freshly straightened house and Mom expressed amazement at his decorating skills. (Which, I should add, are considerable. For example, I never before knew a guy who wraps ribbon around the chandelier chains. And trust me, it just gets better.)

Dutch and Dad assumed positions up in the attic and handed the chairs down, and though each swore to me that he had checked underneath for spiders and old spider nests, I sensed that instead they were looking at each other and rolling their eyes every time I yelled up to remind them. (My mother would have checked. My mother understands about the spiders.) Eventually, we succeeded in getting the chairs into my house, with new covers in place, and while Dutch still hates the carpet, we all agreed the chairs work great with the table. I took the apple crisp out of the oven, threw on some ice cream, and we all sat down to test drive the new dining area.

Later, after everyone had left, I sadly scraped the last crumbs of the apple crisp into the trash. I consider the final bite of the take-home baked goods to be the true end to Apple Weekend each year, and so at that moment I knew it was over. I comfort myself by looking forward to Apple Weekend 2006 – I can’t wait to see how many new significant others, currently unanticipated progeny, or otherwise unexpected newcomers manage to join us next year.

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