We hit the road early on a Saturday, the kind of crisp morning that practically begs for flannel and apple cider. Our destination was Mackintosh Fruit Farm in Berryville, Virginia, a place we had stopped before on one of our RV adventures. The first time we visited, our GPS led us down a winding labyrinth of country backroads that would have made a moonshiner proud. This time, we knew the way—or so we thought. We rounded the last bend, full of excitement, already imagining hot coffee, apple picking, and those famous apple-cinnamon donuts. Then it happened. The gate was closed. It felt like a scene straight out of a comedy, two smiling travelers pulling up to Walley World, only to find the place locked tight.
Chris had done her homework. The website said they were open. But taped to that familiar gate was a fresh sign with new fall hours. We had an hour to kill. So we shifted gears. Instead of pouting, we drove around Winchester, Virginia, rolling through neighborhoods we hadn’t seen in over thirty years. We told stories from when we first lived there, laughing at what used to be and marveling at how much had changed. The morning may not have been going according to plan, but it was already turning into a pretty good story. When we finally returned, the gate swung open like an invitation to a different kind of day.
But our Norman Rockwell vision was already a bit frayed around the edges. The orchard had been picked clean. The trees stood bare against the gray of late fall, and self-picking season was officially over. The kitchen wasn’t serving breakfast, and the picnic tables looked lonely in their autumn stillness. The clerk at the farm store, kind and matter-of-fact, handed Chris a couple of baskets and told her to pick through what apples were left in the bins. Not exactly the warm-glow-of-a-harvest-morning we’d imagined. More like a painting that had been left out in the rain—still beautiful in its own way, but different than expected.
While Chris sorted through the baskets, Service Dog Charlie and I wandered. That’s when I saw it—or rather, smelled it. A warm, sweet, unmistakable scent drifted through the air like a lifeline. Apple-cinnamon donuts. Freshly baked. The kind that can rescue an otherwise ordinary day. The Good Book says the last shall be first, and on this day, we were among the last orchard visitors of the season but the first to get our hands on those donuts. Some didn’t even make it past the parking lot. The sugar stuck to my fingers, and I didn’t mind one bit. The morning wasn’t what we expected. But life’s best memories rarely are. Sometimes the orchard isn’t full, the coffee isn’t hot, and the ladder never gets climbed. But a good donut, a shared laugh, and a detour down memory lane can still make it a Rockwell morning after all.
