The Apple of My Eye

Yesterday I took the day off and Wayne and I went apple picking in the Virginia countryside. For years this has been my autumn tradition, a ritual that I regard as the highlight of the year. Nothing compares to the brilliant fall foliage, the crisp cool air, and the snap of an apple as it is severed from its branch. We picked a bushel and a half, enough for several pies and some apple crisp. The majority, however, will be cooked down, sweetened with brown sugar and cinnamon, and canned for the winter.

True to form, Wayne is so excited about our impending canning session. He called me from the road to ask if we have enough jars and lids, as he wants to be fully prepared for this culinary task. He then asked if I noticed that he had placed the apples on our screened porch. I had, and told him that was a good place, in the cool air and out of our beagles' reach. But it was his next statement that had me frantically trying to stifle my laughter: "I washed them!" he proclaimed, a touch of pride in his voice. "I washed each apple and dried it, so they're clean and ready for the canner!"

Washed and dried a bushel and a half of apples? Who would do such a thing? Certainly not the men in my past, nor would any of my women friends; for that matter, neither would I. The apples will be peeled and cored prior to their demise in the canning pot, thus eliminating the need to wash them. Simply put, Wayne did this because he thought it would please me, that it would make me happy to find the apples shiny and clean. He did it out of love, an agape love that puts my needs before his own. I try to do the same for him, though he definitely has the lead.

Wayne's unemployment has given birth to a new persona, and I like what I see. "By the way," he said before hanging up the phone. "Did you see your library?" I hurried downstairs to find my bibliophile sanctuary neat and orderly, every book in its proper place, the furniture polished, and the leather recliner placed perfectly in front of the fireplace. "It looks great!" I told him. "Thank you so much!"

Simple acts from a man more complex than I ever realized, a complexity that is indiscernible to others. I know differently, for I know The Man Behind the Apron.