This column first appeared in the Victoria Daily Times on Jan. 28, 1939.
Some day, some poetic soul will write the whole story of apples: their history, their development, their uses, their beauty, the part they have played in the development of the human family, and the place they occupy in song and story.
Apples are the children of the sunlight, like the daisies that star the meadows, and should be furnished free of charge to all dusty pilgrims on life’s highways. For they’re more than food — they are refreshment, encouragement, beauty and comfort.
This may seem extravagant to the people who have always had all the apples they want, who have never had their dreams haunted by the delirious sweetness of a remembered apple.
The daily diet of the prairie when I was a child did not include apples. Transportation difficulties made it impossible to bring anything as perishable as apples. But when the CPR was built in 1885, apples were shipped into Brandon from Ontario and Nova Scotia, and the whole pattern of life brightened.
There came a day in mellow October each year, before the hard frost set in, when the wagons that carried wheat to the elevators brought back barrels of apples, and life began at Northfield school. Every dinner pail then had apples — while they lasted.
I wish I could get an apple now that had the flavour of the Ontario Northern Spy, or the Nova Scotia Gravenstein, and I write this with complete understanding of the longing in the heart of the man who struck that magic chord on the organ, and sought vainly for it afterward.
It may have been the long years of privation, the ravenous appetite of a child, unspoiled by too many carbohydrates. I know that the apples of that day had a tang, a crispness, a juiciness and indefinable sweetness that I have not tasted since.
What a great day it was in the life of the prairie when a man named Stevenson began the experiment of growing some of the hardier varieties at old Nelson, near Morden, Man. The pessimists said he was wasting his time, but Stevenson went on. He had a shelter belt of trees around three sides of his orchard, leaving only the south side open, and in time he won. I remember the glad news that he had sold 80 barrels of apples.
Apples are the most obliging fruit in the world. They will grow almost anywhere — every state in the United States and every province in Canada, though not in commercial quantities in the three prairie provinces.
The Pilgrim fathers brought apples to America from Europe, and it was in 1801 that Johnny Appleseed began his project, to put apple trees along every trail in the country. I have always wondered how Jonathan Chapman managed to make his seeds grow.
I have scattered seeds in wayside places — seeds of hardy flowers, delphiniums, marigolds, sweet peas, raking them in lightly and hoping that next year I would see the bright blooms gladdening the glade, but never a bloom have I seen. I blamed the fowls of the air.
But I read now that Johnny Appleseed planted the seeds carefully, cultivating the ground before he put in the seed, and making a fence around them to protect them, and for 50 years came back to cultivate his nurseries. So that is how he started the apple industry, and put all his countrymen in his debt.
It was by patient and exacting toil. I always pictured Johnny Appleseed whisking along in a buckboard, throwing appleseeds out with both hands. So there goes another happy picture.
A recent writer has said that apples are the greatest health builders we have. They contain all the vitamins that other fruit lacks — they build up the body in strength and beauty. If every person would eat an apple a day, peace and happiness would surely come back to this troubled world, for everyone would feel well, be happy, spend money and love their neighbours.
So now there’s another cure — and a pleasant one. I’m for it!
I did not know all this about apples. I only knew that there is a magical touch in a good big plate of apples, rubbed until they shine. No home should be without them.
Now take tonight. The winter has swept over Vancouver Island. Storm signals are flying on the Belmont Building — rain lashes the windows. The moon is thin and wan, and does not get up until late. No one will be abroad tonight. Families have to depend upon themselves on a night like this. The roads are wet and treacherous.
But inside there is a crackling wood fire in the kitchen stove and in the fireplace, too. But a kitchen has the advantage over any other room when it comes to a matter of real comfort.
We are living in a troubled world — every newspaper is full of problems. U.S. President Franklin Roosevelt spoke, warning America that she must be united in spirit, for the forces of evil are gaining ground.
I have been reading Insanity Fair by Douglas Reed. It is a disquieting book on the same theme. He says our turn is coming. The radio has just carried a frank discussion of the whole unemployment question. There are seven million unemployed single men in Canada. A writer in the local paper is pretty sure the Japanese will get us sooner or later.
But there is not much we can do about it tonight, so about 9:30 we will draw up to the kitchen table and eat apples — lovely, crisp MacIntosh Reds.
