The family went apple picking over the weekend. It’s been a tradition for the last few years, ever since the kids could walk. There is a place up here called Riley Farms and it’s one of those places that was once a real farm but turned into a tourist farm to make ends meet. Once a year, about now, they let people come up and pick the orchards clean of about ten different types of apples, blackberries and raspberries. The kids had fun and my wife likes it because she says she can go home and make a fresh apple pie.
“That’s the most expensive apple pie you’ll ever make”, I said. “Those apples cost us forty dollars!”
They also have other attractions for the kids to do. They shot arrows, four arrows for a buck. I sucked at it. If I was an Indian in a past life I starved to death. I also received a feather splinter from one of my shots. They are nasty little buggers. I got it out but it took a while.
What I was good at, which shocked everyone, was the tomahawk throw. Six throws for a dollar. I nailed them. The guy in charge, who also monitored the archery, gave me this creepy sideway glance when I was done. Don’t tick me off, at least when I have a hatchet. I felt like Mel Gibson in “The Patriot”.