In my early teens, my family moved to a large home surrounded by five acres of apple orchard outside Paris. Nestled inside a nine-foot brick wall, the property was surrounded by small farms that had fed the city of Paris for centuries. I was immersed in the rhythm of village life that had been going on for all those years. Though a number of the apple trees were full-sized (around 30 feet), most were espaliered with the main cordons or arms about two feet off the ground with the fruiting spurs on shoots rising from them (similar to the way wine grapes are grown here in California). Green grass was everywhere. My brother and I were tasked with mowing. We had no sooner finished mowing than it
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