The Hutterites

An apple-picking session leads to reflections about modern-day conveniences and age-old prejudices.

Our tree was loaded with apples that year.
We made apple butter,
stored apple rings in our freezer,
and finally, spent two days juicing.
Still, our tree was loaded with apples.

"Such a waste," I lamented to my husband.
"All those apples left on the tree."

We were admiring our garden when they came,
first one, then two, then many,
marching carefully through the rows--
the women in colorful skirts,
the men in somber black.

"Ya need them apples?" an older male asked.
"No," I answered, "take as many as you want."

We watched as they picked the fruit,
even gathering apples that had fallen to the ground under the tree.
"Look how they all work together--even the children," I whispered.

Later, I served refreshments under the apple tree.

"We soak our apples--for juice, you see," one of the women offered.
"We put our apples through a juicer," I replied.
"I wish we had one of those," she said wistfully.

They left the same way they'd arrived,
stepping single-file past corn, tomatoes, zucchini,
in a timeless rhythm attuned to the soil and the seasons.

Later, I mentioned to an acquaintance that the Hutterites had been and gone.
"Well, you don't want to encourage that sort of thing," she said, wrinkling her nose.
"They'll come back and rob you blind.
Why, I've heard..."

And I pondered her words for a long while.
Felt a deep sadness.
Thought of our world gone mad
with its modern-day conveniences and age-old prejudices.

A week later, a blue van turned into the driveway.
The driver got out and placed a large sack of potatoes at my feet.
He didn't say anything.
We stood there in perfect communion.
And a smile of understanding passed between us.

Copyright M. Rhodes

Published in an anthology.
Photo, Courtesy of Lisa Waldner