SHORT:
I went apple picking with my gf this weekend. Great activity. Free and endless snack bar the whole time.
MEDIUM:
The thing nobody tells you about apple picking, is there are going to be an outrageous number of dads in attendance.
I was so struck by the quantity of flannel-clad fathers at the Orchard when we walked in, that I said, out loud: “what is this? dad-land? why are there so MANY?”
Then we turned a corner, and I saw the devices we were supposed to use to get the apples out of the orchard trees — 10 foot poles with metal claws and a little baggie on the end — and it all made sense.
There is no tool in the world better designed to give dads a sense of purpose than a 10 foot wooden pole with a metal claw and little baggie on the end.
It’s big. It’s sharp. And it seems hard to use but is actually super easy/intuitive.
I watched dads who usually spend their days hacking away at computers hack away at branches. Each time they got an apple in the bag, they beamed, and handed the literal fruit of their “labor” to their Carhart-overall-clad six year olds, proud to be PROVIDING for their family like god intended.
Once again, not sure I believe in god. That last bit’s supposed to be ‘in the voice of the dad(s)’ — okay! i’m doing voices! put me on snl!
LONG:
Speaking of god, when I was in high school, somebody spray painted “[my deadname] Pope is fucking a godess” on the wall of a tunnel two towns over.
I still have no idea who did it, but I love that they spelled ‘godess’ wrong.
Why does that extra d in goddess exist anyway?
I learned about the tunnel spray paint through a friend who had stumbled upon it while getting drunk in the little cement burrow. She sent me a photo via fb messenger, and I freaked out, asking her how to access the tunnels so I could see it for myself. She explained the route, but I never ended up going.
Every now and then, when I go back home, I think about venturing over and seeing if it’s still there. I imagine staring at the wall, seeing my old name scrawled in blue spray paint— a mysterious shrine to who I used to be.
Except it very much wasn’t who I used to be.
As a teen, I would get ready for school in the dark. I was like a blindfolded chef making a salad, tossing things around aimlessly, drizzling makeup across my face, and shouting "dressed!" without seeing the fully-lit product.
I did not feel like a “goddess” or “godess”, and I didn’t think anyone felt that way about me either. I really hated myself.
In fact, when my friend sent me a photo of the wall, I had three thoughts:
people are going to think I did this, because nobody else would do this for me
this is a mean prank/ maybe even photoshopped
it says “is fucking a godess” so maybe that inverted language bit actually means they think i’m a huge d*ke and that engaging in s*xual interco*rse with a divine w*oman (something I would go to do starting in college — heyo! — tho divine is a little too gracious — no offense to my college hookups and lovers— i suppose we’re all divine in our own way — alright I’m done)
Through the years, more people have stumbled upon the wall and sent me photos of it. Each time I see it via pixels, my stomach turns.
I’m not sure why. It’s probably just the bizarre mystery of it all.
At the end of the day, I’m honored and touched that whoever spray painted the wall saw something in me that I couldn’t.
They thought teenage me was ‘a godess’ and didn’t even need the extra d to say it.
I just wish they could’ve told me to my face instead of/in addition to vandalizing a dang tunnel.
U didn’t think a lil apple picking newsletter was gunna turn into THAT! HUH!?
i’m fullll of surprises
c u next Tuesday!
Thank you for subscribing. If this is your first time reading the newsletter, read the archives. Sometimes it’s funny, sometimes it’s not – it’s very much like when people slip on ice.
Sincerely,
Reid
Venmo: @rpope-venmo-26
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