Foreword:
4:30 p.m., November 30, 2008. Rainy and cold.

This is the first time that I've been in my studio, “Camp Vanski,” for some time. The reason for this is that my word processor, a Brother WP75, finally developed a problem that I couldn't fix. If anyone has one stashed away that they would let go for a reasonable price, please let me know (I don't want a computer).

I've been taking my messy handwritten manuscripts to a professional typist. My handwriting is impossible and I'm always making changes and revisions up until the last moment. Her billing time continues to run while I'm fumbling to find my place—I'm sure this makes it easier for her, but I still appreciate her patience.

Amid numerous reports of slowing construction and businesses collapsing, my tractor repair business is doing quite well. My check bouncers, stiffs, and, in general, difficult customers have gone under—or gone somewhere—and I'm left with the very best, top notch clientele and easily enough work to last until spring maintenance time. I'm taking advantage of days when work outdoors is possible and all of the machines are accessible, so I have little time to write. So . . . now you've heard my version of an NPR “Encore Presentation” spiel.

Arno the Apple Picker is about—of all things—a fellow I picked apples with. Arno is not his real name. If you've lived in Hampshire County, West Virginia, for more than 30 years you are likely to guess his true identity. If you worked the orchards around Slanesville, Augusta, and North River Mills any time prior to the mid-eighties, then I guarantee that you'll guess his name.

Anyway, I wrote this piece almost twenty years ago. It's not doing anyone any good mouldering in the “archives” under my work bench, so here it is.

"Arno"

It's a cold, windy night—a possible record low temperature. Hard, gritty snow blows past the window above my workbench. The heavy, rough-sawn oak workbench supports a large truck transmission, partly disassembled. I'm doctoring the transmission's innards.

The wood stove has the shop warmer than I would easily tolerate in summertime, and the radio station is doing a program of early jazz. Cozy. My thoughts drift to cold weather stories that I've heard and eventually to one in particular. The story, in turn, reminds me of its teller: Arno the Apple Picker. My work brings me into close contact with the apple growing industry and, of course, apple pickers.(Understand that the author has spent many an hour on the tallest picking ladders harvesting the huge old-time seedling rootstock apple trees, and has the highest respect for this most honorable occupation!).

Midwinter finds most apple pickers warm and comfy at home in Florida, Mexico, or Jamaica. That is, most of them. Some of them are full-time local residents.

It would be nice to think that all local apple pickers are farmers or other hard-working folk supplementing a modest income—and, indeed, many are. But seriously, folks—some are more interested in liquidating (no pun intended) their paycheck into MD 20/20 wine, locally referred to as “Mad Dog,” as soon as possible. Arno falls decidedly into the latter category and would gladly be the first to tell you about it . . . or anything else, for that matter.

Arno the Apple Picker is what some may describe as—well . . . a wino. A rural wino enjoys a much higher standard of living than his urban counterpart. Therefore, a fellow can really get down to some serious wino-ing. Arno found his calling early in life and felt no need to develop in any other direction.

For Arno, whatever party got him started on this forty-year adventure in alcohol still hasn't ended, and all effort and expense is directed toward keeping it going. I never knew where Arno went when there were no apples or peaches to pick.

People from his neck of the woods say that, come late fall, he puts up a woodpile, several bushels of home-grown potatoes, a mess of sauerkraut, and numerous kegs of homemade hooch. Once in a while, he'll slip out and harvest a deer.

To look at Arno, knowing his occupation, could have a more devastating effect on apple sales than the Alar scare.

Rather than to risk putting any fruit growers out of business, I'll not go into great detail about his appearance. Everyone has known a wino, so for the time being, let Arno look like your wino or a composite of great winos that you've known. Got it? Okay.

Arno has an uncanny ability to smuggle booze onto the orchard despite the many efforts to prevent it. (After Arno's death, it was discovered that he placed caches of liquor around the farm in the night or on Sunday. Most of Arno's legendary stash has been found, but the search continues). When he is sufficiently soused, Arno will drone on and on in his bucolic monotone on any subject to anyone who would listen.

Arno rolls his own cigarettes but enjoys a “ready-made” every now and then. A cigarette package with a snow-covered mountaintop on its label catches his attention:

“See thar . . . the snows-a-settin on top of the mountain an' there ain't none down below then hows come apples an' peaches an' cherries an' 'maters freezes s' bad in the hollers when the snow's on top of the mountain?”

“See thet fork in that locust tree yonder? When the sun sets right down in that fork then I only got time to pick one more box o' apples before quittin' time. Heard you can buy a Model T Ford cheap around Canada or somewheres up in there—might do just that—an' them rocket fellers goin' up t' the moon probly find the devil up there.”

You have to interrupt him to get him to stop.

“Sure is a chilly morning,” someone offers.

Arno pauses for only a moment—probably just for breath.

“Seen it so cold onest I had to sit on the oven door to the cookstove to keep warm—had to sleep with the taters to keep 'em from freezin'. Snow blew in through the keyhole and buried the cat. Feller on the radio said it was sixty below zero.”

“Sixty below!” I exclaim.

“Yessir, sixty below's what he said but I don't never pay no 'tention. I got one o' them cheap ol' radios—it'll jest tell ya anything.”

He'll make a rare public appearance during the winter—usually at the old East End Tavern—to be carried (or, in one instance, wheelbarrowed) out at closing time by some of his equally rustic cohorts.

As I think about him this frigid night, one of the first things that comes to mind is how Arno has wasted his life . . . but no! I've never seen him when he wasn't happy. As he must be tonight. Sitting on his oven door, drinking home brew, playing the spoons and arguing with the radio.

See you again in the next issue of Antique Power magazine! Then let's meet here again in February. That's a tough month to write about—guess I'll just throw a dart at the calendar, and then find that date in my journals.

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