a little more from that storeh back dere.
They were small and bitter, but those hard, only-good-for-decoration-apples were what made Apple Street; Apple Street. The small girls would pretend to be gardeners’ mothers or chefs with the apples. The boys however, knew how to turn it physical. They invented a dozen contact sports, throwing apples in hoops, in baskets, at cars, at each other...The autumn apples were the best because they were soft and almost mush on the inside, with the faintest of sweet smells like cider.
They would split into teams of two. Our Fourth and Third children would be sneaking around the corner of the house when Third would tell the other to wait there, that it was dangerous and sneak away. The Fourth Child would sit eagerly for his scout to return. When he did not, he would rise and turn the bend himself to look for him. Immediately, the other three boys in waiting would pelt their youngest member incessantly and laugh hardily when he began to cry. In tears themselves, they would try half-heartedly to cheer him up in fear of getting in trouble and would usually succeed in stopping the tears by making him feel poorly for ‘being such a baby’.
This was what it was to be raised on Apple Street.
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