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(Note from Jan: October is Alzheimer's Awareness Month, so I'm posting the following story in recognition of that...)

Perhaps only in a food writer's mind  can a connection be made between a spin around the dance floor and a bushel of Gravenstein apples.

The wedding was held on a warm summer evening at a charming old farm, outside of Snohomish, Washington, just east of Seattle. Cloaked in the golden ambiance of a century-old barn glittering in candle light, this promised to be an elegant affair.

But what really drew me to the event was the opportunity to spend time with family and friends from my home base in California; particularly my godparents, Ralph and Louise. Since trips to the San Francisco Bay area are not as frequent as they should be, I wasn't going to let this time slip by.

At 87, Ralph has been dealing with alzheimer's for about 10 years. Growing up, I remember an innately bright and kind-hearted man who sat patiently through all of my middle- and high school drama productions. Even now, his disease hasn't rendered him less sweet or endearing to those around him. And he's so remarkably adept at masking his inability to recognize anyone but his wife of 55 years, that it's easy to carry on a conversation with him as if nothing has changed.

But it has, of course. After a delightful few minutes with Ralph, I've learned to steel myself for the moment when he'll turn to my godmother and ask, "Louise, who was that pretty little girl?"

This special couple represents that phase of my life when my folks were in charge and life was good. It was a fine childhood, particularly those times spent with Ralph and Louise, and the rest of my parents' tight circle of friends. Camping in Yosemite, ramming around California's gold country, San Francisco musicals, these were all grand adventures thanks to these genuinely fine adults who lived full lives that always included my brother and me.

And because Ralph was a great dancer, many of my images are of the various dance floors we encountered: a Victorian parlor at the Wawona Hotel in Yosemite, where a solo pianist played past midnight so we all could have a turn at waltzing with Ralph; a country inn near Fiddletown and another lone piano player trying to keep up with our crowd's exuberant style; and of course, every family wedding.

But I hadn't shared such occasions with Ralph in many years. So it simply hadn't occurred to me that he still sported dancing feet until Louise turned to him when the music started inside that barn near Snohomish and said, "Come on, Ralph. Let's dance."

Enjoying the sight of them, my mother and I watched Ralph and Louise drift elegantly around the floor through several melodies. Then, since I didn't know when - or even if - I'd ever get this chance again, I cut in on Louise. It was a fox-trot, and Ralph easily led me through the steps.

The energetic beat faded, but we lingered, waiting for the next tune.

It was Natalie and Nat King Cole, singing "Unforgettable." And the years between my youth and this moment merged. Suddenly I was that little girl at the country inn, peeking through the lace curtains on the porch along with my cousin Bonnie, as the adults waltzed gracefully around the room in the California Sierra foothills.

I looked over my godfather's left shoulder hoping he couldn't see the tears.

As Nat King Cole faded out, a familiar piece of the 40's brought everyone on the dance floor to attention. "Go girl go," laughed Ralph. And I did, holding on for dear life as we spun and dipped to "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B."

And then, halfway through "Jeremiah Was A Bullfrog," Ralph finally put up a hand. "Oh my, I've got to rest. You know, I'm not 86 anymore."

In search of fresh evening air and a glorious sunset, I found myself standing by a grizzled old apple tree. It must have been at least 75 years old, that tree. A basket of newly-picked apples stood off to the side. Who had planted this tree? Had they been around to watch it mature? Gauged the growth of their family against its sturdy trunk? Picniced beneath it's sheltering branches through decades of hot summer days?

How many pies were born from its countless harvests, I wondered? And for how many people would the mere scent of freshly-picked apples carry them back to this very spot on earth and make them smile?

When a family of settlers at Lord Hill Farm planted this tree, they were undoubtedly preparing for the future. As stewards of the land's ability to nurture our descendants, they couldn't possibly have known that it would be the kind of sustenance that was as good for the spirit as the body. Just as my parents and their circle of friends couldn't possibly have known that the seeds of love they planted in my youth would flourish and bloom as completely as they did.

And how was I to have known that a precious spin around the dance floor with Ralph could distill a lifetime of memories into something so vivid and sweet?

Gravensteins and dance floors.

From the music drifting out through the barn doors, I knew that Ralph was waltzing with Louise once again, and that he had inevitably asked, "Who was that pretty little girl?"

To which I will always say: A very lucky friend.

Open Face Apple Pie

An old recipe which still tastes great today. Serve warm or cold

1 9-inch deep-dish unbaked pie shell

4 to 5 tart green cooking apples, peeled, cored and sliced

1 cup sugar

1/4 cup flour

1/4 teaspoon salt

1 cup heavy cream

Ground cinnamon

Place sliced apples in the unbaked pie shell. Mix together sugar, flour and salt and sprinkle over apples.

In a saucepan, bring cream to the boiling point; pour over apples. Sprinkle generously with cinnamon. Bake in 375 degree F. oven for 45 minutes, or until apples are soft and the pie is firm.

Recipe from "Oregon Sampler: Resorts & Recipes," by The Assistance League of Corvallis.

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