"Hello, young lady.  You come to pick apples today?"

"Yes.  Where are they?" my granddaughter asked.

"In the orchard.  Are these your folks?"

"Yes.  I'm Stella, this is Grandpa, and that's Mommy over there petting your dog."

"I'm right pleased to meet you all.  It's $10 a peck bag, but they're heavy when full.  You strong enough to carry one, Stella?"

"Sure!  I'm six and a half."

Moments after I'd paid for three bags, all three of us strolled down the grassy lane toward the apple orchard.

"Can you read that sign, Stella?" her mother asked.

"Uh huh . . . baking apples that way (she pointed left) . . . and snack apples there (she pointed right).  What's a 'snack apple'?"

"The kind I pack in your lunch bag every day, but we'll pick some of each."

We walked past two rows of picked-over trees.  Dozens of rotting apples littered the ground.  The third row looked more promising as Mom began picking.

"Which should I pick, Grandpa?"

I walked toward a tree near Mom's and pointed at clusters of reddish-yellow apples on the lower limbs.  "Let's try these."

After plucking one of a trio, Stella gave me a saucy grin.  "Bite it, Grandpa.  See if it's good."

I took it from her, felt it, and quickly scanned its circumference.  "Plump and ripe, no scale or worm holes.  We'll keep it." I bagged it.

She scowled.  "You didn't taste it."

"Didn't need to."

"But that's how you check them."

"At home, yes," I chuckled.  "Not here in the wild."

"They're not wild.  They're tame.  I'll show you."

She bit one before I could stop her.  "Tame!  Just like those I eat at school."

As Stella's small teeth were about to sink into the apple's flesh again, she halted.

"Oh . . . a worm.  Look, Grandpa.  He's cute."

Hardly, I thought.  The worm oozed from a good-sized hole.

"Toss that one, Stella.  It might have more."

Nope, she ran with it to her mother.  "Look, Mommy.  My apple has a friend.  Can I take him home?"

Mom, glaring at me, mouthed disgusting and shook her head.  "We take home only apples without friends.  Be more . . . uh . . . choosy, Sweetie."

Stella did a brief stomp and dance before dropping the apple.  She deserted me and stayed by her mother's side.  "Can we pick snacky apples now?  Please?"

"That okay with you, Grandpa?" Mom asked.

I nodded and followed them to the other rows.

Stella ran to a tree laden with dark red fruit.

"The redder the better, right, Mommy?"

Mom smiled.  "Good girl.  You remembered what the grocer said."

Stella quickly found a big round one and licked its surface.

"No!  Gross!  Not before it's washed," Mom cried.

"It's shiny, so it doesn't need washing."

I grabbed the apple and rubbed it well with my handkerchief.  

"Polishing makes clean," I said, winking at Stella.  "So your Grandma likes to say."

When I sank my dentures into it, Mom gawked and Stella grinned.

"Yummy!" I declared.