Before apple bottom jeans were made into a song, I owned a pair. I’m not talking about Apple Bottom, the brand — I mean kid bell bottoms with little apple patches stitched along the bottom hem. If only style maven were a term in my vocabulary back then.
My family and I took our annual road trip to Apple Hill last weekend. We’ve been going for years, easily ten or more and counting, and it’s the same each time: lush forests with leaves of all colors, nippy air, apple orchards. There’s warm apple cider, fishing ponds, and buttery caramel loaded on top of everything. To say Apple Hill was my childhood would be an understatement, unless you count those angsty teenage years when nothing involving my family could crack a smile on my face.
There’s this old picture of my brother and me, pre-teenage angst, chasing each other along the rolling hill(s) of Apple Hill. In it are my apple bottom jeans, forever immortalized by that photo snap. Those jeans are in so many of my few childhood memories that they surely define a chapter in my adolescence in the same way one thinks of friends or teeth lost. I have one specific memory of placing them neatly into my dresser while in the dark. Important questions that come to mind: why was I in the dark? Why do I remember that insignificant moment? There are some things I’ll never know.
Here’s another thing synonymous with Apple Hill: Christmas card pictures. Let’s just say I’m the designated runner for starting the camera timer — you would think we’d have a remote by now, but at least it helps me work off all the caramel apples I ate. I really should petition for a camera remote.
Where that picture with my apple bottom jeans is now, I don’t know. Maybe emo teenage Catherine burned it in spite. I did, however, find one of my boots with the fur. Just call me Shawty.