1992-1993: My autumn idyll
Sometime in October 1993, my family spent a carefree, cool, and sunny afternoon at Wilson’s Apple Orchard. It’s an event that has become my autumn idyll and is one of the most cherished memories of my youth.
We were among only a handful of families there; it was far from the zoo it can be during pumpkin-picking season (at least these days; Wilson’s has become an autumn institution). We had the entire farm to roam to pick apples and pumpkins. There was no rush or frenzy. It was easy going, calm, relaxed—the perfect day to unwind and enjoy the season.
I don’t remember exactly why we were there. I assume we were getting pumpkins for Halloween, or maybe a bag of apples. Perhaps we were on a tour of autumn activities; I remember browsing for pumpkins at the old Coral Fruit Market that fall too. Maybe we were there to roam around, to get out of the house. I assume it was a weekend afternoon but could be wrong, especially since there were so few people there.
What sticks with me most, what made the day so iconic, was the hayride around the farm, from the high ground lined with apple trees to the lower, creek-side area near the pumpkin patch.
The setup for the hayride was nothing special. It looked like an afterthought, impromptu, something the Wilson’s crew cobbled together at the last moment: a low trailer, bales of hay lining the edges, towed by an old John Deere tractor. It was simple and rustic—as hayrides usually are. We rocked and bounced as the tractor pulled us slowly around the farm, the engine thumping rhythmically. People got off and others got on as we rode around, but we were among only a handful who were riding, which added a special intimacy.
We sat back and enjoyed the ride. I felt completely at peace. I remember my sister lying on the exposed wooden boards of the trailer between the bales. She was quiet and her eyes were closed as she took in the serenity of the afternoon—which, given her noisy hyperactivity, makes it a red-letter day by itself. At one point, the driver advised us to pull up our feet before we crossed a creek. The trailer seemed to glide across the surface of the water, and the engine roared as the tractor pulled us up the steep bank of the creek.
Crossing the creek is the last thing I recall about that day. I don’t remember the end of the hayride or what else we did while at Wilson’s. The hayride could not have lasted more than a half hour, but it left an indelible mark on me for some reason, probably because it turned out to be a unique experience. It was the right day, right time—which I did not realize until we visited Wilson’s again the next fall. I expected the same experience, the same tractor pulling the small hay-bordered wagon, but it was very different: it was crowded and multiple tractors pulled long covered wagons with benches. It was not the same. It was nothing compared to my autumn idyll in 1993.
Whenever I think about autumn activities, especially picking pumpkins and hayrides, I think of that cool, sunny, carefree fall day in 1993.
