Unpeel, Good Fruit

EDITOR'S NOTE: The Original Trope

The Sick Rose

O Rose thou art sick.

The invisible worm,

That flies in the night

In the howling storm:

Has found out thy bed

Of crimson joy:

And his dark secret love

Does thy life destroy.

— WILLIAM BLAKE

The orchard planting party was held in May in Upstate New York, near where the Bouquet River meets Lake Champlain, and just following an esoteric earthquake that had fissured the sandy soil there. A long table was set up, covered in protective whitish plastic, and on it, sweaty cold cuts were spread.
Two rows of holes were to be dug. Each would be two feet deep and spaced fifteen to twenty feet from the next, ensuring optimal pollination. We collected shovels and picks for the occasion.

The first couple of holes were completed without fuss. But, breaking the
ground for the third, my father hit something. Corrupted wood fragmented into
mist. Then the next hit, and when he raised the pickaxe, it was covered in gray hair.
This was considered a party foul. Discussions were held on whether to call
the police, on the nature of this makeshift coffin and its relation to the previous
owner. The party went on, though. The orchard was planted.

Two decades later, every October that land produces catastrophic quan-
tities of pocked McIntosh apples. Hopelessly, the fruity deluge is collected for pies

and sauces, until the black bears move in with their families to take care of the
rotten rest.
Hubris is like that. There is such a thing as too many McIntosh. And,
more broadly, it is true: apples are overdone.
From Genesis to Snow White, to Magritte’s The Son of Man, to The
Hunger Games, the apple is surely the original trope. This summer, The Beacon
agonized over the question: “Which fruit?” We decided on the most basic. I could
say it is because of the resonance of this universal symbol, and that we endeavor to
build on a legacy of reddish, delicate sin.
Rather, I will say, I have always loved a crisp McIntosh in October.
Throughout this issue, we traverse a cycle of blooming, ripening, and
bruising, as the titular fruit is peeled, allowing a figure to emerge. Maybe this
figure is the corpse inside that shoddy coffin, which was confirmed to be a beloved
sheepdog laid to rest years prior. Maybe it is that form that decays so the orchard
may be abundant, so the cycle continues.
From 1876 to 2026, The Beacon stands as a testament to the generations
of students who have given their time, ideas, and voices to its pages, and to the
many more who will carry that tradition forward. Thank you to all those who
made this issue possible.