When Apples Become Oranges: A Southern Family Secret (Part One)

“Seasons will change and the clock will turn, years will pass and the candle will burn, when apples fall, and roots turn black, heal the bloodline and the fruit will come back.”

In the early 1900’s, an old apple orchard farmer stood amongst the apple trees.

Hal Wilmington was deep in thought. The orchard had been in his family for generations. He pulled the brim of his hat over his eyes, unruly white hair spilling absolutely everywhere. Raising apples was no easy business. Navigating temperature changes, water supply, rain and drought, apple thinning, sun scorching, and other things made this work hard. Hal was the 4th generation of Wilmingtons to own this land and live this life.

This season was proving to be especially difficult. A mysterious rot had settled into the roots of the trees and slowly affected the branches, and now the fruit. Decomposing apples fell from sick trees and littered the ground. The flies and stench of the rotting fruit stained what was once a picture of profound beauty. Great grandfather Perry “Papa” Wilmington, the first patriarch of the Wilmington apple empire would have shuttered at such a ghoulish sight. He might even have shed a tear.

But there was no time to mourn.

Hal had gone to visit surrounding orchards. Urgent in his search to see if others were experiencing this blighting plague. He went to the Jacksons, the Macks, the Parkers, the Harpers, the Pughs and a myriad of others. Hal had gone far and wide to those he knew, and so many he didn’t. Their fruit wasn’t falling, roots were untwisted, with no overtly discernible disease. Looking closely though, almost beyond notice, the spidery marks of the rot had begun to form at the root of the trees of every apple plantation he visited. He would report what he saw, but they responded just like he did when those same markings appeared in his orchard:

He didn’t.

Hal ignored what was reminiscent of charred firewood as the base of the hardwood. Too busy, too distracted, too tired. At least these were the excuses he offered as options for himself. The truth was, he was afraid. Afraid of what this darkness might really be.

It was said right before Papa Wilmington died, he had a vision. In this vision, he was given a message from a man in a shroud that said:

“Seasons will change and the clock will turn, years will pass and the candle will burn, when apples fall, and roots turn black, heal the bloodline and the fruit will come back.”

Whether myth, legend, or strange folk tale that one of Papa’s dark skinned nurses told, it haunted him. It haunted his family. The mostly unspoken anecdote was whispered amongst the kids, and grandkids, where the adults wondered when a drought or hard winter came:

“Is this the year? Is this the year that the roots turn black?”

Hal shuddered and walked to the mansion of the main house. He nodded to James and looked to Annette, both waiting and at attention as he crossed the threshold.

“I am ready for my dinner, Ma’am.”

“Of course Mr. Wilmington”, Annette said, “I’ve cooked your favorite.”

_________________________________________________________________

Hal sat at the head of the table in a large dining room. He had just finished a hearty meal. Steaming rice, crab soup, with shrimp, grits, and okra. For dessert he had bread pudding and washed it all down with two tall glasses of sweet tea.

He’d eaten meals in this large room from the time he was a small boy, and watched his grandfather and father sit in this same chair. They would preside over dinner proceedings like some sort of southern emperor. But those days of rousing feasts and spirited debates at the long ornate rectangle were long gone. He looked at the seat that his precious Mary would sit, always aglow with love for Hal and the children and grandchildren. Four decades he basked in the glow of her sunshine, before small pox thieved her away.

Her death sent a seismic ripple through the family. Sarah and her husband moved to New York, Robert to California, and Hal Jr. moved somewhere. But no one quite knows where. The pain of the lost matriarchal glue that held them all together ripped them apart.

So Mr. Wilmington sat alone missing a past, so past that it seemed like another life.

“Mr. Wilmington, would you like me to prepare your pipe and drink now?”

“Thank you, James. That would be perfect.”

Moments later, Mr. Wilmington sat in a great rocking chair on the back porch watching the sun go down. He sipped bourbon and smoked his pipe. But like most things on the Wilmington plantation, it was his by inheritance.

This pipe had been given as a rite of passage from father to son, from father to him. Scented tobacco smoke curled into the sky and caressed the side of the house. It just struck him to think that he could leave this world with no one to give this curved oak pipe to. He took another sip. The liquid gave a slight burn as it went down his throat.

A croak of a toad interrupted his thoughts. Then a familiar voice came behind it.

“Mr. Wilmington? Would you like me to light the lanterns, sir? It is getting dark out.”

“No James. I wouldn’t. What I would like is for you to relax and have a seat.”

“Sir?”

“Yes. Please. “

James came and reluctantly sat down in the straight backed wooden chair next to Hal. It was Mrs. Mary’s old chair. She didn’t like to rock. The chair felt rare and sacred. Like something to be hallowed and revered, not sat in.

James did his best to get comfortable, glad his awkwardness was mostly masked in the growing dark. The two men sat in silence, the only light coming from inside the house, a small candle on the porch, and the occasional embers from his pipe.

“James?”

“Yes, Mr. Wilmington?”

“Call me Hal. We’ve known each other for more than a few years, yes?”

“Very true, sir.”

“You’ve seen my kids, my grandkids, worked in this house for decades, why can’t we be friends?”

James isn’t sure how to respond.

“…Yes, yes sir. You are right.”

“You’ve seen the trees haven’t you, James?”

“The trees sir? “

“The trees. The trees, James. That damned rot, at the bottom of the trees. Can’t get rid of it. Can’t stop it. It’s everywhere.”

“Yes, sir. I have seen it.”

Hal shifts uneasily. He has another question, but isn’t sure how to ask it. He puffs on his pipe, rocks, adjusts his tobacco. Now his hat.

“James?”

“Yes sir.”

“Call me Hal, James.”

“Yes, sir. Hal, sir.”

“You’ve heard of the legend yes? The legend of the roots?”

Now it was James’ turn to feel unsettled and uncomfortable. He was well aware of the legend, the story, and the curse. But he had come to learn, painfully at times, that it is best to keep your nose out of white folks business.

So he answered carefully.

“I may have heard the children saying something about it some time back, but I don’t pay much mind...”

“ — so you know of it?”

“Like I say, I don’t pay much-”

“James. I need your help. You know as well as me, that if we don’t save these trees we will lose everything. Your family has been here too. Your granddaddy, my granddaddy walked these grounds too. Just like us. Hell, maybe we ain’t friends at all. Maybe we are best called family.”

At the word “family”, the distinguished Butler stiffened.

James Warner III thought of the symbiotic relationship that the Wilmingtons and the Warners had over the years. They were taught as children to be seen and not heard, to always defer to the Wilmingtons when necessary, that the land was theirs now and their lot was to work it.

And work for them.

____________________________________________________________

Annette was ten years old. She had coffee skin and long hair. We called her Annie.

Mama would tie her hair in curly pigtails. Her hair was beautiful like mama’s was. And like mama’s it had never been cut. Because Annette was the baby in the family, and the only girl, both her and Daddy took special joy in her. We all did.

Once a week after Sunday night dinner, Mama would braid and work what she called hair mash through every strand of Annie’s hair. Mama said the mash came all the way from the people of the Congo River, in Central Africa. She learned to make it from her mother, who was taught by her mother. Whenever we boys would try to get some to put in our hair, Mama would smack our hands and say “Only for your sister!”

While she braided Annie’s hair, Daddy would tell stories. Some funny, some scary, some made up, but always lessons. Give your best. Never run up behind somebody and be less than what you were created to be. Honor your elders and speak first when you walk in a room. Lessons, lessons, so many lessons.

Annie’s best friend was Cassandra Wilmington. Though her name was Cassandra her nickname was Cassie. Cassie was the same age as Annie. She had curly blonde hair that reminded me of a poodle.

One of my younger brothers made a joke one time about how poodle-like Cassie looked. Mama heard it and gave us all a firm talking to. We weren’t to make fun of the Wilmingtons, or any white people for that matter. Especially little white girls. So we stopped making fun of Cassie.

At least in front of Mama.

We loved Annie, but we hated her dolls. They were everywhere.

Most of the dolls she had were from Christmas (she got one per year), and via Cassie’s hand me downs. Because black skinned dolls were especially rare in those days, Mama would color their faces with charcoal or a brown crayon.

One day Annie and Cassie were playing dolls when the subject of hair came up. For some reason, Annie was feeling especially proud of her long braids. So she bragged like little girls often do. How her hair came from Africa, the Congolese people, the land, the history, the stories. And how her hair was so much longer than Cassie’s. The only exception was when Cassie’s mother would straighten her hair for special occasions. But even then it would coil back up into knotted ringlets as soon as Cassie would start to sweat. On the hottest days we would come up with the funniest poodle put downs that you ever heard!

Away from Mama of course.

Well Cassie didn’t take much to the teasing and ran to tell Lady Wilmington. Lady Wilmington came out that big ol’ house seething. I never seen a face so red. And with that crimson mouth she summoned Annie and all of us Warners out into the courtyard.

I will never forget what happened next.

“James? You still here? You with me?”

“Yes, sir. Still here. Just thinking, just thinking about how I could help.”

James snapped back into focus, forcing this ancient echo to the back of his brain.

“Well then, how can you help?”

“Well, sir. There is someone that might be able to help. If you can find him.”

“If I can find him? Who is he? What is his name?”

Enveloped in the cover of night, James sat back in Mary’s chair and allowed an odd grin to sneak over his lips and down his face. He knew who, didn’t know where, but was fairly certain he knew why.

Ever since the day in the courtyard, James Warner III knew why. The recollection both chilled and frightened him.

Now he would see if Hal Wilmington had the stomach to come to know what he already knew.

(To Be Continued)