22 of 44

Write now Article Tools

The Hutterites

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?" one of the men asked.
"No," I answered. "Take as many as you want."

We watched as they picked and gathered the fruit.
"Look how they all work together even the children," I whispered.

Later, we served refreshments under the apple tree.

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

They left the way they had come, stepping single-file past cucumbers and zucchini.

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.
"Why, I've heard . . ."

And I pondered her words for a long while,
Thought about modern-day conveniences and age-old prejudices.

A week later, a blue van turned into my driveway.
The driver got out and placed a large sack of potatoes at my feet.
He didn't say anything . . .
But a smile of understanding passed between us.

Learn more about this author, Athlyn Green.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.

Add your voice

Know something about Poetry: People's differences?
We want to hear your view. Write now!