Far Muse
October 2009
"The North End Promenade"
By Ted Kalvitis
Just about everyone who reads these columns knows that I'm a former apple picker. The readers of the Hampshire Review, Winchester Star, Antique Power, Country, Farm and Ranch Living, and the defunct newspapers the West Virginia Advocate and the Capon Valley Chronicle have also been thus informed. That should cover just about everyone locally who might have a spark of interest in rural affairs. However, if things continue as they are, we might have to drop the “former.”
Naturally, it would be expected of me to write about apple picking for the month of October—so here goes. High on a picking ladder, the halcyon days of fall color, the satisfaction of hard work in the countryside, the glow of red fruit in the sixty year old wooden crates as the ancient Oliver tractor pulls the wagon down the rows of apple trees. Low, slanting sunlight illuminates the dark red apples remaining in the trees. A wisp of wood smoke from an old farmhouse is born along on a cool breeze.
There, with that out of the way, let's move on. We'll certainly visit the orchard again, but as for an apple picking story, here's what really emerged.
Norman is a cat—a tortoiseshell spayed female. As so often happens, cats are named before their gender is determined. Norman doesn't care what gender he—or she, or whatever—may be. We, though, will refer to Norman as “he” since Norman is a masculine name.
Norman arrived as a kitten from some obscure Winchester (Virginia) alley in 1996 or 97. He then claimed G.L. Dunn and Sons welding and machine shop on the north end of town as his home and the Dunns, their employees, and customers as his family. Customers have become accustomed to Norman's curiosity and affection. It is not unusual for him to flop down on a precision measurement in progress. “Out of the way, Norman . . . .” Thus I often find cat hairs on my micrometer. They're .002, or two thousandths of an inch, in diameter. Many of G.L. Dunn's clientele, including yours truly, have offered Norman a home should any situation arise that would make that necessary.
G.L. Dunn's is in an old brick building (circa mid-1930s). It was an auto body and fender shop for B and M Chevrolet many years ago, and is part of a small commercial and industrial area that sprouted from the former site of the Frederick County fairgrounds. The shop features a large plate glass display window next to the door. One could easily imagine a 1940s movie character closing up shop for the night on a snowy Christmas Eve, turning his collar to the wind, and walking off down the darkened street. Oates Avenue, where Dunn's is located, is very much the old fashioned tree lined street, with maples predominant.
Apart from walking the shop's counter to inspect each new job that customers bring in for fabrication or repair, Norman likes to sit under the “closed” sign, looking out the display window after the shop has closed for the day. He watches intently the goings-on along Oates Avenue which, as it's a modest and obscure back street, typically isn't a lot. I sometimes pick up projects and drop others off after hours. I often find Norman at his usual perch in the window. He instinctively sniffs at me through the glass, then settles back to observing his world, leaving a single feline nose print on the glass.
After sundown, the window is softly lighted by the glow of a bulb some distance back inside the shop, among the metal working machines and office furniture. By fall apple picking season, the days are noticeably shorter but, for now, the light from the street still overcomes that from the shop. Porch lights are left on along Oates Avenue to guide the heavy pedestrian traffic between the migrant labor camp and the 7-11 store and Dale's Grocery on Loudoun and Cameron streets.
For the more ambitious, a somewhat longer walk brings one to the shops, grocery stores, and restaurants between Fort Collier and Baker lanes. A few venture past Dale's Grocery and through the darkened parking lot, past the warehouses to that secret opening in the railroad's fence. From there, they walk along the railroad tracks toward the illicit pleasures that one may find on north Kent Street.
Norman is fascinated by these jolly islanders and Latinos. No, Norman can't convey his intense interest in these unusual passers-by, but the vast number of kitty nose prints on the glass give his secret away. The traffic continues until well after dark—but not too late; there's hard work to be done the following day. One is left with the impression that the outside lighting along this street might not be so elaborate, even ornate, were it not to help guide these annual visitors.
Moving along into October, the maples along the sidewalk blaze with color in the porch lights. By the end of the month, many of the leaves have fallen and most of the Jamaican apples pickers have gone home, or south to cut sugar cane. A few stragglers remain, picking up the late season work, gathering drop apples and so forth. With the last of the apples in the bins, the foot traffic ceases.
One by one, folks along Oates Avenue remember to turn off their porch lights for the night. Norman goes back to mouse patrolling after dark, and Gary Dunn cleans away the myriad nose and paw prints that Norman has left on the glass.
As the first snow flurries of November arrive, the tractor drivers in the orchards move the last of the full apple bins onto waiting trucks. The busy apple harvest is over, and Norman completes his twelfth years as master of ceremonies along the North End Promenade.