Rotten Apples

     Standing on a ladder, I pointed my camera toward a stump of an apple tree. It occupies a spot in the back yard.
     Why haven't I sawed away the stump? When I push a lawn mower, the stump gets in the way. Those neat lines I cut in the grass bend out of whack.
     Sentimentality keeps the stump around. As a boy, I'd climb the tree with my brothers. When apples fell, my aunt would collect them and bake pies.
     My friends and I used apples for ammunition. We'd engage in apple throwing battles with kids from another neighborhood.
     In our rivalry with those boys, we once decided to up the stakes. A hole was dug on a footpath in the woods. Leaves and twigs concealed the hole, better described as a booby trap. Rotten mushy apples were spread beside the hole. Our plan was audacious. We'd lure our rivals down the trail. One of those suckers would trip in the hole and fall among the rotten apples.
     We approached a back yard where our rivals were hanging out. We flung apples at them. They were infuriated. They chased us down the trail. Those rivals were bigger and faster than us. They drew closer. We knew that capture meant getting roughed up.
     My friends panicked. They forgot about the trap. One of them stepped into the hole. He toppled into the apples. My friend had fallen victim to our own chicanery.
     Come the spring I'll chop the top of the stump into the shape of a bowl. A trash can lid will get placed upside down upon it. Voila! A bird bath.
     The apple tree will provide new delights.