O frabjous day!
Callooh! Calay!
I looked out the windows and there, in bloom, were

the plums (in need of a bit of pruning)

the plums (in need of a bit of pruning)

and

the crab apples (besides the pink, there are white and red)!

the crab apples (besides the pink, there are white and red)!

I never look at the crab apples in bloom without thinking of my late mother-in-law, Margaret Collom. Through her many years living in Silver Spruce up Boulder Canyon, each fall she’d climb a huge hill to a sort of feral crab apple tree, where she’d pick the fruit and bring it home to make gallons of jelly (or is it jam?), she passed around to her children and many, many grandchildren.

When she grew too old to climb that hill anymore (and that meant very old), she nonetheless longed to pick crab apples, so we brought her here, to the trees between my house and Susie’s. Not quite the same, but, she laughed with delight as younger folk climbed a ladder into the high branches and filled bags and bags of crab apples for her.

I imagine that the crab apple tree at the top of that hill — the middle of nowhere as crab apples go — came to be there because once upon a time a couple went to that place to picnic with white bread and crab apple jelly. The young man bit down hard on a pit, nearly breaking his tooth, and where he spit it out, the tree grew.

It’s raining. Refreshing April showers, and we’re told there will be no killer frosts.

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