A family tradition began when our children were small. We headed from the East Bay to Placerville, California where Papa and Honey, Rick's grandparents, use to live and where they are now both buried. We would put flowers at the peaceful cemetery and we would remember our loved ones. Knowing they would want us to do something fun, we would meander our way through the ranches of fruit orchards always stopping at our favorite: High Hill. There is a pond for fishing, craft booths for viewing, apple cider for tasting, scrumptious warm apple donuts for eating, and delicious apples for baking. If we traveled there in October near Halloween, we would even pick out our pumpkins for carving. Nestled in the foothills, these ranches touch the familiar cord of fall: time to see the leaves change to vibrant yellow, orange and red; time to feel the chill in the morning air and snuggle in warm sweaters; time to hear the autumn breeze rustle in whirlwinds--swish, swoosh; and time to hear the laughter of family as we drive home with our tummies full.
Today our daughter Jaclyn with her boyfriend Seth traveled to Apple Hill, even with smoke from the King fire which discouraged and prevented some tourists from making the drive. On the way home they thoughtfully stopped by bringing us a taste of autumn in the apple donuts, apples and cider.
I am grateful for traditions which I have thought a lot about today. Traditions bring us back to experiences and places again and again. They warm our hearts just like the sights, sounds and tastes of seasons.
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