Love in the Time of Climate Change by Brian Adams Page A

were not doing the trick.
    Sarah stared out the window, visibly bored. I could read the bubble words forming over her head: “I wasted an entire afternoon for this? Why?”
    â€œI’ve never been one to ogle over Red Delicious.” Jesse continued.
    â€˜Ogle over Red Delicious’? Jesus, enough already. He was sounding like a fruitcake. Even I, spaz that I was, wouldn’t come out with a line like that.
    â€œI mean, they have their place, I suppose, but give me a good Cortland any day.”
    â€œWhat’s not to like?” Sarah said, grimacing. “That crisp, robust flavor.”
    Oh god, she was on to his bullshit.
    Jesse blushed, clearly floundering. He glanced in my direction with a deer-in-the-headlights look. “Help!” He flashed. “Help!”
    I had to do something, fast, or this would be yet another one-and-done.
    â€œYou know,” I jumped in, “for all of his apple-y good deeds and his preaching of the apple gospel, evidently Johnny Appleseed was one seriously weird dude. I guess he ran off with some thirteen-year-old girl, whose father found out and then went after him. It was all very warped.”
    â€œThat’s bizarre,” Sarah replied, perking up. “You mean there really was a Johnny Appleseed?”
    â€œYou better believe it,” Jesse chimed in, shooting me a gracious “thank you” look.
    â€œJohn Chapman, a.k.a. Johnny Appleseed, born and bred a few towns over in Leominster. Quite the character. Barefooted, vegetarian, clothed in a coffee sack, orchard planter, proselytizer of apples and the holy gospel from Massachusetts to Ohio.”
    The Roommate had done his research on the god of apples as well.
    â€œYou like animals, right?” he continued.
    Sarah nodded.
    â€œI guess he was quite the animal-rights dude. Story is that he once quenched his campfire because mosquitoes were flying into the blaze and getting burned. ‘God forbid that I should build a fire for my comfort, that should be the means of destroying any of his creatures,’ he said. Or something like that.” Jesse used his best Appleseedy voice on that one, weird but effective, eliciting the first real smile from Sarah.
    â€œAnother time he slept out in the snow rather than disturb a mother bear and her cubs from the hollow log he was hoping to crash in.”
    â€œA man ahead of his time,” Sarah replied. She was getting into it.
    â€œAnd apples. Damn if he wasn’t the one that made them America’s fruit. He’d be like one step ahead of pioneer settlements, planting an orchard and waiting for folks to catch up. As soon as they did he’d offload the real estate, move west, and plant another orchard. Quite the guy.”
    â€œSounds like it.” she said.
    â€œDid you know apples weren’t eaten until like the 1900s or something?” Jesse continued.
    â€œWhat do you mean weren’t eaten?”
    â€œNobody ate them.”
    â€œThen what’d they do with them?” she asked.
    â€œThey drank them. A lot of the water in early Americawas unfit to drink, so they’d take apples and make hard cider and drink that. The alcohol content zapped the bad shit. Christ, it was the drink of choice even for kids. Everybody had a buzz on!”
    â€œSeriously?” Sarah asked.
    â€œSeriously!” Jesse said.
    I breathed a sigh of relief. Sarah had stopped looking out the window and was looking at Jesse. Things had clearly picked up.
    â€œBut did he like Cortlands?” Sarah said smiling, visibly impressed with the wealth of apple knowledge spewing forth.
    â€œWorshipped them. Adored them. I’m convinced they were his hands-down favorite.”
    â€œAlong with thirteen-year-olds.”
    â€œYuck!”
    After more idle, apple-y chitchat, we finally pulled off of Whatley Street and onto the dirt farm road leading to Quonquont. It was a winding lane leading up a hill, and dust kicked up behind