As I unloaded the gear from the truck (leaving the vomitous sick sack in the back), I smelled smoke.

No forest fire haze today. A perfect day.

It occurs to me that I hadn't washed down the underside of the truck carriage last night.

Yep, lots of yellowish green branches of rabbitbrush down there, jammed up against hot surfaces. So out comes the hose, and I waste more of our precious liquid down the curbing and the storm drain.

I rationalize this waste by pointing out to myself that the fire department would expend a whole lot more water, and chemicals, too, putting out my truck if it ignited.

As I'm wrapping up with the hose, the five kids who brought a cat spider to our front door to be identified many weeks ago come by, asking how the spider is doing.

After identifying it, and assuring the girl whose leg it had crawled on that it was not poisonous, we released it in our largest blue spruce.

But haven't seen it since.

The female leader of this young clan holds up the bitten apple in her hand, and advises me they have been helping themselves to the apples from our tree in the south curbing.

Now, this was supposed to be a crabapple tree, but this being the first really successful year for producing fruit, I am certain these are not crabapples. At least, not the decorative kind. About the size of a small child's fist, these green apples are turning rosy on one side, and actually slightly sweet to the taste.

For the first five seconds, or so. Then you become aware you are eating a green apple.

Haven't finished one yet.

But a lot have been falling off in our recent winds. And possibly because of squirrels. Was heaving the windfalls into the garden yesterday when the Mormon missionaries came by.

They thought I was throwing them at squirrels.

Anyway, these five kids are totally unabashed about stealing our apples. Okay, not like we had a plan for them. And I remember picking and eating true crabapples off neighbors' curbing trees when I was a kid.

Ten minutes later the crew is at our front door again.

They would like to pick our apples.

All of them. Or at least as many as they can reach and carry.

If I would be so kind as to loan them a bag.

No, I don't think so. How about two each?

So I take a break from the morning paper, still waiting for my stomach to settle down, and help them pick the ripest, reddest ones.

Which, I notice, are all pretty much higher than these kids can reach.

Perhaps it wasn't the wind and squirrels, after all.