Apple Pie

Oct 07, 2008 01:00 PM Filed in: Stories For A Friend
ApplePie
Okay, my friend, I told you I had an apple pie story for you.
Well, when I was 17 and a junior in high school my Dad sold the house my sister and I had grown up in. She was away to college, and Dad and I moved out into a little cracker box of a house in the country that we rented. We really liked that little country house. But Dad knew that once I graduated he was going to leave our hometown for good because it was just too small a place for him to put his life back together after all that the family had been through.

I eventually finished high school, Dad moved to Peoria, a city about two hours away from our old home, and I left Illinois to go to school in Indiana. It was 1979. I was 18 years old, and from that point on I lost any true sense of Home. Home was no longer anchored in a place. Home really was where ever my Dad happened to be living. For about a year that was a room at The Ragon Motel in Creve Coure, Illinois. I can't remember the room number. And then for another few years it was an upstairs room above The Golden Dragon Chinese restaurant in Pekin, Illinois, and we ate at the Chinese buffet 6 days a week. Home was where ever Dad was. Dad was Home. When I was away to college I lived my student life, and on holidays and summer vacations I stayed with Dad where ever he was living. We made due, and we were happy pretty much anywhere we landed.

I also would from time to time go back to my old hometown to visit friends and family, but having no home there anymore to go to, I would stay at my Uncle Donny and Aunt Dee's house. They gave me a key to their front door, and I would always give them a heads up whenever I was going to roll into town which invariably would be at 1 or 2 AM on a weekend morning after driving for hours from where ever I was coming from. They would go to bed that night and wake up in the morning to find me sleeping on their couch in the living room. We were Family.

Well, my Aunt Dee is a very sweet person, and she bakes the best apple pies. Seriously, really good pies. And she knew that apple pie was my favorite. Well, you know, every time I ever came back to my old hometown to sleep on her couch during those gypsy years, every time, I would let myself in the front door and walk into that dark house in the early morning hours, I would dump my bag on the floor, walk into the kitchen where the stovetop light was left on, and there sitting on the top of the stove would be a freshly baked apple pie. Every time. And so in the quiet of the night I would sit down with a glass of cold milk and eat a slice of pie. When I was finished I would tidy up the kitchen, crawl onto the couch, and crash. It was nice. It was just a pie, but it was so nice. It was Family, and it made me feel loved. I might be a wandering gypsy, I might not know exactly where Home was anymore, but I still belonged. And I always wanted Aunt Dee to wake up in the morning and see a slice missing from her pie. I wanted her to know that I loved her pie and I loved her too. And I was grateful.

So apple pie is my favorite pie, not just for its taste (which was the child's reason, the first reason) but also now for all the warm memories it holds for me. Whenever I sit down to enjoy a slice, it reminds me of my Aunt Dee and her quiet way of saying "Things are going to be okay. You're with Family, and you are loved. Here have some pie."

Pie is Good, my friend. Pie is Love, and it is best when shared. So here, sit with me a bit and have some pie. I made it myself. Things are going to be okay, you know. Sure as you and I are sittin' here. You'll see. I promise.