It was the summer of 1944. I would be starting fourth grade in September. We had moved to our acreage on the edge of Knoxville the preceding March. There were walnut trees, pear trees, raspberry bushes, and an old apple tree– and oddly enough, no cherry trees on what had once been a cherry orchard. My mother was making raspberry jelly from berries we’d picked, and apple butter from some of the summer apples. These early apples, commonly called glass apples, made the best and smoothest apple butter when used before they were fully ripe.