I walked into the basement of the local church last week to peel apples for the church's apple butter festival. Some twenty older adults worked steadily; one or two welcomed me. I reveled in the buzz of activity, but felt slightly out of place. Though I had lived in the area for 14 years, my roots were in a small town near Baltimore. These were farmers from the rolling hills of the Piedmont: their faces wrinkled; their bodies bent and worn. I had come because of an unusual friendship
In early summer, I stopped by the church hoping to find a teen-aged boy to mow my lawn. A middle-aged woman weeded the garden. She responded immediately, “I'll do it.” She has helped me all summer. We have become friends. Last month, her husband volunteered to mow my pastures to prepare for the farm's Fall Festival. We worked all day quite happily. “Why did he do that?” another friend asked, incredulous that someone would volunteer to work a day for free. She does not know about farmer's currency: farmers help each other. When my friend asked me to peel apples, I said yes.
On this morning, four men sat at a table turning mechanical peelers. At the end of that table, two people quartered the apples and put them in large tubs. At a third table, a plump woman patted dough with her hands, rolled it with a pin and put it in a pie pan. Three women at the kitchen counters filled the pie pans and returned them to her. She rolled out a top crust, crimped the pie's edges and trimmed off the extra dough. In the center of the room, twelve people sat around two tables, tubs of apples center table.
I picked up a knife and a bowl of apples. I sliced the core out of apple quarters, peeled any skin off of them and dropped them into a large plastic tub. The room hummed with the steady click, click, click of the mechanical peelers, the kisssthump, kissssthump as knives quartered apples, the pat, pat, pat of dough and rolling pin, and the thud of apples hitting the bottom of the tub. Some people talked in low tones about family members, vacations, food and those who were sick or those who had died. I loved the sounds and the movements of communal work. In my hometown, locals came together to create a Fourth of July picnic and a community carnival. A group gathers just before Christmas to bundle fresh greens to create a swag for the front of my home church. We often sing carols as we work.
I heard little laughter and no singing, but rather rough, hard-edged kidding. People spoke jokingly about how someone would get hurt or killed if he or she engaged in some activity. When one man arrived late, I was advised to watch out for him. I heard the woman next to me say softly to her friend, that she wished the country music was not so loud. I asked the woman who was playing the music to turn it down. She frowned, turned it off and quipped how city people did not like good music.
I heard occasional charged conversations about the Democrats and the supreme court confirmation. I bristled inside, but knew I could not have a genuine discussion about our different views in this setting. Instead I peeled apples, extended courtesies and laughed good naturedly when I could. I met the gaze of two elders whose eyes were deep, clear brown. As I put more apples in the bowl of the woman next to me, she said, “I know who you are now. I grew up in the third house from the corner (the house next to my farm.) I knew the people who lived in your house. We all played together.” I thanked her for sharing her stories.
Mid afternoon, my friend's full-sized pick-up came down my farm lane. They had brought slices of country ham, a gift from the man who ran the festival to honor my help. We had extended courtesies and help to each other across the great divide of our disparate cultures. I had asked if the farmers could help me find a goose for my gander. “We'll ask around,” he had responded. I now have ties to my local church where my hands will always be welcome. I may have a goose before Thanksgiving.