I grew up on a bluff overlooking the Connecticut River. Looking out our front window gave us a view over the entire river valley, which on a clear day allowed us to see all the way to the Berkshires of Massachusetts. Behind our house was a large orchard that rose even higher on our hill. It was planted mostly in apple trees, but also had peach and pear trees, and even pumpkins in the fall. For us kids, the orchard was a place to hike and hide; and in the winter, we skied by being pulled behind my sister’s good-natured quarter horse. The orchard was also a place for us to mark the seasons. The scented apple blossoms of spring always gave way to ripening fruit in the fall. Many of the apples ended up a half-mile down the road at the local cider mill, where they were quickly converted …