Apple.picking Quotes

For I have had too much Of apple-picking:I am overtired Of the great harvest I myself desired.

It was a good apple too. A good apple, picked by a madman on a full moon night.

I wrapped my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist. “So we’re coming back for Thanksgiving next year, right?” Alex sighed. “Maybe.” In other words, yes. I beamed. “Maybe we could come up early and go apple pick—” “Don’t push your luck.” Fair enough. We’d go apple picking the year after next. Seven hundred-odd days should be enough time to convince him. “Alex?” “Yes, Sunshine?” “I love you.” His face softened. “I love you, too.” His lips brushed over mine before he whispered, “But don’t think that’ll save you from the spanking you’re getting once we’re back in the cabin.” A shiver of anticipation rippled through me. I couldn’t wait.

It is difficult to imagine Fanny [Price] engaged with poultry, or supervising apple-picking... her role as [as a clergyman's wife] suggested by Jane Austen was to be a gently moralizing one. She would strengthen Edmund's moral purposes and supply the shrewd assessment of the people around him which he clearly lacked.

I love my sister, but she doesn't exactly have standards. She doesn't like being single. She doesn't like the chase. Doesn't like flirting. She likes intimacy. She likes to love someone. Give her energy to them. To know someone and be known by them. She likes to share her life. Hold hands and cook and plan picnic dates and apple picking.

I’m glad he’s shown his true colors. If that’s what you think of as a good time? Going apple picking with someone who vapes?

When apple-picking season ended, I got a job in a packing plant and gravitated toward short stories, which I could read during my break and reflect upon for the remainder of my shift. A good one would take me out of myself and then stuff me back in, outsized, now, and uneasy with the fit.

It is strange to see these enemies of ours so close up. They have faces that make one think—honest peasant faces, broad foreheads, broad noses, broad mouths, broad hands, and thick hair. They ought to be put to threshing, reaping, and apple picking. They look just as kindly as our own peasants in Friesland.

There were a great many holidays at Plumfield, and one of the most delightful was the yearly apple-picking. For then the Marches, Laurences, Brookes and Bhaers turned out in full force and made a day of it. Five years after Jo's wedding, one of these fruitful festivals occurred, a mellow October day, when the air was full of an exhilarating freshness which made the spirits rise and the blood dance healthily in the veins. The old orchard wore its holiday attire. Goldenrod and asters fringed the mossy walls. Grasshoppers skipped briskly in the sere grass, and crickets chirped like fairy pipers at a feast. Squirrels were busy with their small harvesting. Birds twittered their adieux from the alders in

You know what heaven would be for me now?” Evan looked down at the table. In the mound of loose puzzle pieces, he made out a bright blue eye—Johnny’s. “To see him for one minute more doing something mundane,” Deborah said. “Something I never bothered to pay attention to. Eating an apple. Picking at his dirty fingernails. To watch him watching TV. That’s all heaven is. It was right there, every instant of my life before. And I couldn’t see it.

At a subsequent Homebrew meeting where Wozniak showed his creation, everyone seemed impressed, including Wozniak’s friend Steve Jobs. Around that time, Jobs was given a freelance project at Atari, having altered the terms of his employment. Atari’s founder had tasked Jobs with designing a single-player version of Pong, in which the ball could be simply hit against a wall back to the player. Jobs called on Wozniak, who was working at Hewlett-Packard, to help. Over the course of less than a week, Jobs and Wozniak delivered a single-player version of Pong. Jobs was in a rush. He needed to go back to a commune in Oregon, where the apple-picking season was about to begin.

Two years before our arrival at Maplehurst, we had left the Midwest eager for new jobs, milder weather, and a house of our own with a real backyard. We were unprepared for the enormity of our losses. Good friends. Close-knit community. A meaningful connection with the work of our minds and our hands. There was one lost thing, in particular. It was such a natural part of our prewilderness lives that I only ever recognized it after it was gone. In our northern city, we had lived a seasonal rhythm of summer festivals and winter sledding, spring baseball games and autumn apple picking. Our moments and our months were distinguished by the color of the trees, deep red or spring green, and the color of the lake, sparkling and playful in summer, menacing and dull in winter. These things were the beautiful, sometimes harsh, but always rhythmic backdrop in our days. Time was like music. It had a melody. In the wilderness, the only thing that differentiated one season from the next was my terrible winter asthma. Without time's music, I became aimless and disconnected, like a child's lost balloon.

I don’t get it. I am not unfit. I work out, and I plow down guys twice my size on the ice. The thing that kills me is apple picking? What the actual fuck?” Jacobs laughs. “You’re using muscles you don’t normally use.” “And your brother? The scrawny one? He’s like a machine. He can strip a tree faster than I can strip you.

To love like that, it’s a kind of ache,” she continued. “Because you hate every bad thing the world could ever hold for them. And you hurt for them all the way through even when nothing’s happened yet.” A single tear clung to the tip of her nose, a perfect jewel. “And how many times does it not happen? The fall from the tree house. Choking on undercooked bacon. The not-too-bad car crash. And then? One day it does. And it’s like you’ve been braced for it your whole life.” Her voice lowered with a kind of awe. “But it’s so much worse than anything you could have imagined. It makes you rethink hell. And heaven. You know what heaven would be for me now?” Evan looked down at the table. In the mound of loose puzzle pieces, he made out a bright blue eye—Johnny’s. “To see him for one minute more doing something mundane,” Deborah said. “Something I never bothered to pay attention to. Eating an apple. Picking at his dirty fingernails. To watch him watching TV. That’s all heaven is. It was right there, every instant of my life before. And I couldn’t see it.

To be fair, no one yet had complained of the dinner. Since the uncommon hour made it too late for breakfast and still a few hours too early for dinner, it had been a scramble for Violet to make them a meal on short notice. She'd curdled some cream with sweet wine and a grating of cinnamon, serving it warm to the table, and thickened the porridge of Indian meal they had eaten at breakfast and fried it in cakes drizzled thick with molasses, brought pickle and cheese from the cellar and rounded it off with two pies of the first apples picked from their orchard, still fresh from her baking of yesterday.

Kelley gives the planning everything he’s got, both strategically and financially. He rents a Jaguar, the height of luxury (and fast, Kelley thinks). They will drive to Boston, have dinner at Alden and Harlow in Cambridge, and stay at the Langham, Mitzi’s favorite hotel—then in the morning, after breakfast in bed, they’ll drive to Deerfield, Massachusetts, and meander through the three-hundred-year-old village. From Deerfield, they’ll head to Hanover, New Hampshire, to have lunch at Dartmouth (Mitzi’s father, Joe, played basketball for Dartmouth in 1953 and Mitzi has always felt an affinity for the place), and then they’ll drive to Stowe, Vermont, and stay at the Topnotch, a resort. From Stowe, it’s up to Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom to spend the night in St. Johnsbury. From there, they’ll go to Franconia Notch State Park, where they’ll ride the Cannon Mountain Aerial Tramway for the ultimate in foliage viewing. They’ll end with a night in charming Portsmouth, New Hampshire, a town Kelley thinks is possibly the best-kept secret in America. He has arranged for a couple’s massage in front of the fire, for them to go apple-picking, on a hayride, out to dinners at fine country inns where bottles of champagne will be chilled and waiting on the tables, and for a personal yoga instructor in Stowe and then again in Portsmouth. He has made a mix of Mitzi’s favorite songs to play on the drive, and he’s packing up pumpkin muffins and his famous snack mix (secret ingredient: Bugles!) in case they get hungry on the road.