You smell like donuts.

It’s almost traumatizing to think about the orchard. I spent so many hours there during my last few years of high school, working diligently every weekend from August to November, slapping happy faces on the oblivious visitors.

When I first interviewed for the seasonal job, the lady interviewing, with her big blonde hair and enormous glasses, asked if I was artistic at all. Sure, I said, singer, musician, artist. That weekend, I was placed in a permanent spot in the face-painting booth and I regretted being so eager to flaunt my artistic ability.

The fall festival itself ran from the end of August until the beginning of November, just past Halloween, and you were guaranteed at least a few snow days before the end of the season. Hayrides would run back and forth all season, carts of folks snuggled up in bundles of hay pulled by big, green tractors, out to the apple trees for people to pick. In October, some tractors would swing past the pumpkin patch. The orchard was a good size with plenty of parking. Trees lined the main street into the park, and folks parked in the big gravel lot that had been cleared. On one side of the street was the original building, with its red and white trim. The building had been there for over fifty years, and it smelled of apples, donuts, and country knickknacks.