Cinnamon Apples at the Witch’s House
by Rod Jones Artist-Writer
The story of a twelve-year-old boy and an old historic road that seemingly forgot its purpose. The vulnerable Mormon Lumber Road, precariously winding its way down through Waterman Canyon, from Crestline toward San Bernardino, built in 1852 for wagons loaded with mountain timber. By the time the boy walked it, the wagons were long gone, and the road was barely passable. One old house stood among the trees about a third of the way down the mountain. It was legendarily known as The Witches House.
“Mom, I’m going to hike down to the witch’s house. Can you pull together my favorite?”
“Again, you want to make cinnamon fried apples? I’ve never seen a boy eat so many apples. They should be sweet enough without you having to smother them in sugar, cinnamon, and give them a fry. Maybe someday I’ll give it a try. I’m pretty sure your father won’t eat it. Again, I hate to harp on this, but be very careful that you don’t start a fire with your sterno stove. Keep the ground clean around it! After you do the cooking, make sure you put the lid on the sterno. I don’t want to hear any firetrucks heading that way.”
“Don’t worry, mom. I know what I’m doing, I always do. Half the fun for me, besides eating the apples, is using my army surplus cooking kit, and my folding sterno stove.”
“Yeah, uh-huh.”
It usually took the boy about 20 minutes to get to the beginning of the old road. It began right where people called that area the county yard. A place where heavy equipment was kept, some of it for road maintenance on highway 18; going up and down the mountain. Other pieces of equipment were primarily used for snow removal, like the motor graters. The boy often climbed into the cab on the weekends when no one was around. Sometimes he would discover Copenhagen cans of snuff. Fairly often he would uncover a small bottle of brandy. He figured the drivers of the snow removal equipment probably carried the brandy just to keep warm. The other item that wasn’t too unusual for him to find hidden under the seats were copies of girly magazines. For a young boy, he found them both funny and entertaining. His natural curiosity made him wonder how do you drive this big piece of equipment and look at a magazine at the same time.
From the county yard the hike down to the boy’s favorite place to hang out and fry his apples was about a 20 to 30 minute walk. It was a dry and dusty dirt road with mostly a mix of chaparral in Manzanita laced between those two varieties, occasionally you would see some coyote brush.
One time he decided to come down through one of the canyons that was above the county yard. He learned quickly that was not a good option, because he ran into poison oak and he managed to get entangled in a bit of it. He learned pretty quickly not to mess with the pacific poison oak and that canyon was right in the sweet spot of where it lives and grows just below 5000 feet.
Halfway down the dirt road he saw a diamondback rattlesnake basking in the sun. This was not unusual. He knew enough to keep his eyes open when he was heading down the road, but this particular rattler was right in the middle of the road. It wasn’t curled up. It was pretty much stretched out so he knew it wasn’t threatening to strike. In fact, he was pretty sure the snake didn’t exactly know he was there. Usually they hear you stomping on the road and that’s what wakes them up. There was heavy brush on either side of that corridor. No practical way to give that snake a wide birth.
“Maybe I’ll just throw a rock at that snake and he’ll crawl back into the brush, hopefully in a good direction so he can’t try to strike me.”
The boy’s dad often told him to be careful of snakes and where they typically hide. Well positioned to strike you while you are hiking. The boy’s father also told him that should you get struck by a rattlesnake, you need to head home quickly. Well mountain boys are pretty savvy about snakes and even black widow spiders who he got bit by once. He knew that if he got struck by a big rattler, especially this distance from home or even a cabin that someone might be living in. It wasn’t gonna give him enough time to get treatment, so he made sure he was always extra cautious.
The throwing of the rock did the trick, it woke up the snake from its warm sunbathing and it slithered off into the brush. The boy took careful note as to exactly how far into the brush it went. It also suggested a warning as he continued down the dirt road that there were probably going to be other rattlesnakes, warming themselves in the bright sun and the powdery dirt.
He made the final turn in the road and now he could see the clump of trees and the somewhat level spot where the witch’s house stood. He asked himself which he often did, “I wonder why it’s called the witches house?” Everyone in town, well at least most of the residents on the mountain referred to it as the witches house on the old road.
The boy went to set up his little Coleman stove, and started the preparation at hand to start making his fried apples. He looked over at the old house and as usual it was quiet and peaceful. For as many times that he had been there he had never known anyone to actually live there or be there. That seemed to suit him just right, he had the place to himself. He could lean up against the tree and take a nap after he ate his fried apples. There was usually a cool breeze blowing through there, and when he visited towards fall, he could watch leaves fall off the oak trees. But this time it was the middle of summer, and the breeze was not all that cool, but still was refreshing. The area where the boy sat was up against an old pine tree. Occasionally, a squirrel up in that tree would start making the sound squirrels do when they’re not happy. He would look up and simply say, “I will leave you alone if you leave me alone, and don’t forget, I know how to throw a rock all the way up to where you’re squawking at me.”
The cinnamon and the sugar was in the small jar as his mother prepared for him. He shook it up real good to blend them, and after the butter melted, and the sliced apples were put in the pan and started to soften, he sprinkled them heavily with the sugar and cinnamon. He openly claimed in a loud enough voice, so the squirrels and the birds could hear him congratulating himself on how he just prepared a tasty meal and how a simple can of sterno could make the heat necessary to prepare his fried apples.
After the apples were crooked properly and ready to eat, he slid the sterno lid back into place to knock out the flame and let it cool. The boy was always very careful not to let that flame get away and start a fire.
Completely satisfied with his tasty meal that some people would refer to as a dessert, he would lay back against the tree, close his eyes, daydream for a little bit and start to fall asleep. This time he came out of his sleep rather abruptly. He thought he heard a truck coming up the road, not from the top down, but from the bottom up. Out of all the times he had gone there to have his apples, he never once met or saw anyone; as far as he was concerned, this was his private place. In fact, the only person who actually knew he went there was his mother, although he knew she would’ve mentioned it to his dad.
The noise from the truck got louder and louder. He was trying to decide what he should do. Should he just pack up his stuff and take off? Or should he just stay put? He thought to himself, “I wonder if it’s a fire truck or maybe a sheriff coming up the road. If it’s a fire truck, they’re probably gonna give me a hard time about my little open flamed stove. If it’s a sheriff, all they can really do is question me and tell me to leave. Besides, if it’s a sheriff from the mountain, he would know me and my family. I would probably wanna know if I have any fried apples to share with him.”
The sound of the vehicle got closer and closer, and finally it turned the bend in the road and he could see it was just an old pick up truck, mostly red in color, but looked like it had a lot of rust which blended in with the red paint and made it look almost dirty brown.
The truck pulled off the dirt road and headed straight for the witch’s house. He could see that it looked like there was only one person in the cab and it was a woman.
“I wonder who this person is? I wonder if they’re gonna give me a hard time for being here? I don’t know if they actually saw me leaning here up against the tree. Maybe I should just pull up my stuff and sneak off.”
It was a woman all right. It looked like an old lady to the boy, but then again, at his age all women seemed to look like old ladies. She was wearing a long black skirt, and a very dark green tunic. Her hair was as black as her skirt. The boy, as he was sizing her up, couldn’t quite figure out why her face and hands were so white. It’s like she had no pinkness in her skin, which he felt was kind of odd because most people during this time of the year had a warm tan complexion.
The woman, after she got out of the truck, started to walk up to the house. But then she stopped suddenly, stood there for a minute, and turned abruptly and looked straight at the boy leaning up against the tree. She stared at him for a long minute, not moving, just standing there and staring at the boy. This made the boy very uncomfortable and he thought to himself. “I think I’m in big trouble. I need to pack up and get out of here quickly.” He honestly thought to himself.“I’m scared, I’m scared of this person and the way she’s looking at me. There’s nothing friendly about this old lady. She’s weird looking.”
The boy stood up and quickly wrapped everything and put it back in his army surplus telephone case. Fortunately, the sterno can had cooled down, so he just jammed everything into his case, pulled it over his shoulder, and started to head over to the road.
“Hey boy, it’s OK, don’t take off, I’m not going to hurt you. I think I was a little startled to see someone sitting here. I’ve never seen anybody leaning up against a tree on my property. I hope I didn’t frighten you. Can I come over and talk to you? I guess I’m just curious, and I probably startled you. I’m harmless. This house was built by my grandfather. His name was Tom Jason. My name is Carol Jason.”
All the time she was talking, Carol Jason was walking over to the boy, she was no more than 5 feet away. She wasn’t a particularly tall woman, but she did look down at the boy in a non-threatening and non-intimidating way. The boy stood there, looked at her face and realized that her eyes were just as black as her hair and her skirt. He didn’t know exactly what to do, but he was raised to respect his elders and to always be polite.
Carol spoke again to the boy as he stood there somewhat awkwardly. She could tell that he was uncomfortable and she knew he was frightened.
“Looks to me like you were having a little picnic by the big pine tree. It is a beautiful day with the breeze coming through. I don’t blame you. I always felt this place was comfortable and restful. I wish I could come here more often. In fact, I wish I could just move in and live here, but this old house doesn’t have any electricity and the water comes from a well. As old as this house is, it has good bones, it’s well constructed and the patio to the side was made by my grandfather, and some of his helpers. If you look closely, his initials TJ are large enough for anybody to see that look down at the patio. Do you come here often?”
“Yes,” the boy answered. His voice was uneven, and afterwards he had to clear his throat.
Carol understood that the boy was frightened of her so she tried to not ask him too many questions. She didn’t even want to ask him what his name was. She convinced herself that he would eventually open up. “He’s just scared.”
Carol was right, the boy was definitely scared. Her milky complexion, her black eyes and the way she was dressed, was contrary to anything he had ever seen before. He thought to himself he should just say goodbye to Miss Jason and head up the road to his home. As that thought raced through his mind, Carol started to ask the boy some questions, and he wasn’t too sure if he should answer her honestly. But he didn’t think any kind of lie he could come up with would be good enough for her.
“What did you have for lunch? I only glanced at what you were putting away, but it looked like you had a little stove and a pan so you were cooking something when I drove up I could smell something like a dessert. It must’ve been very nice to have a warm lunch while spending some time here in this place.”
At this point, the boy realized he was gonna have to talk and tell her what he was doing. He was frightened to do so, but he felt like he had no choice. She had the right to know why he was there, what he was doing, and what he was eating.
“Well, Miss Jason,” He said respectfully, but still with a shaky voice. “I was having some fried apples with cinnamon butter and lots of sugar. I have a little stove and sterno so I heated it up and then eat it with my fork. My mom puts some butter wrapped up in some wax paper. She mixes some cinnamon and sugar together in a little jar for me. She makes me slice up all the apples. We then pack it into this old military surplus phone case. I’ve come here on several occasions in the summer and have my fried apples. I’ve never seen anyone here. I did once look into the windows of your house and I really couldn’t see much now. If it’s OK with you, Mrs. Jason. I think I better leave you alone to enjoy your place and head home.”
“No please stay for a while and I’m not Mrs. Jason. I’ve never been married. I’m very happy that you chose this place to have your fried apples. What a wonderful treat and I bet it’s very tasty and it’s a wonderful thing to have a mother that helps you put it together. I especially like that she makes you cut up the apples, so you two are working together on your special treat. I think you have a wonderful mother. I’m happy for you and I especially like what you made for yourself to eat and especially like you coming here to my house to enjoy your afternoon.”
Carol knew better than to reach out a hand to the boy. She could tell he was nervous and unsure of the whole situation. But she was glad he started to talk with her.
“I have an idea. I like apples very much and when I come to this home, which some people just call a cabin, but to me, it’s a home. I usually fix myself a specialty and guess what it is? It’s an apple tea. Some people think it’s more like an apple cider, but it’s not. It’s a very special recipe and I think you would really like it. If you would like, I’ll be happy to show you around my home and I will fix you some of my specialty. I know you’re going to really enjoy it. Whenever I have it, which is usually here, it makes me feel happy inside. And I must say it is delicious just to sip on and relax. Would you like to come in and see the home? It’s kind of old and it’s filled with a lot of old things, but I think it’s cozy and interesting at the same time.”
Carol could easily see the boy was trying to figure out exactly what to do. His natural curiosity wanted to go into that old cabin, but he was also afraid of her. The boy looked into her black eyes. They seemed very cold, but her voice was warm and caring. He always wanted to see what was in that house. He also knew that many people that lived in Crestline knew about it but nobody ever really talked about it. They just simply called it the witches house and he was never sure exactly why. The boy decided to ask her directly about it, maybe she knew.
“Mrs. Jason I want to ask you a question. Everybody, well, at least a lot of people in Crestline, referred to this house as the witches house. Nobody would ever say why. I didn’t really much care. I just came here and enjoyed myself. I’ve always come here by myself, and the only person that really knows that I come here is my mother, and she just says to me to be careful of the snakes when I come down the dirt road.”
“Well I guess you’ve met the witch. But I don’t really think of myself as a witch. I’m not sure how my beloved grandfather‘s cabin became known as the witch’s house. I’ve never heard that tale before. I don’t know if I should be flattered and happy about it. I guess one good thing for sure is people are afraid to come here and that means that nobody is going to steal things from it or do any harm. It’s interesting to me that you have found this to be a very comfortable place for you, and I guess you’re not afraid of witches, are you?”
“I just don’t think about it for me. This is a special place. None of my school friends know that I came here. I don’t tell anyone this is my secret Hideaway and I’ve never felt uncomfortable here. You don’t even look like a witch to me Mrs. Jason, but I’ve never really met one so I don’t know what they look like or what to expect. In the movies, they just seem to wear a black pointed hat and have warts on their face like in the nursery rhymes. And I guess they fly around on a broom.”
“Well, this witch, if you think I am, doesn’t have a broom. I just have an old truck. Now, if you would like, come with me and I will show you my grandfather’s house. And I will make you some delicious apple tea.”
This is the end of Part One. This story is about 98% true. But in Part Two, well you’ll have to read it to see what really happens.
I welcome your comments on Part One. And if you live in Crestline and still remember the witch’s house, I’m going to reveal something in Part Two, that almost no one knows about to this very day.
The short stories and essays published in Thought Row Vignettes are written entirely by me, Rod Jones Artist and Writer, using only a human hand and imagination. AI does not write, revise, or generate the fiction, essays, dialogue, plots, or endings. Any imperfections in grammar or punctuation are authentically mine.
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Some accompanying visuals may be original photography, properly licensed stock images, or AI-generated illustrations created from my own visual direction. These images are visual companions to the writing, not substitutes for it.
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In a web where automated systems generate so much of the traffic and language, Thought Row Vignettes remains a small space for human-made fiction and reflection, one human sharing stories with another.