In the fall, after work, my father would come home with pomegranates in a brown paper bag. Two or three rolled out of the bag onto our kitchen table. Grabbing one, I broke open the leathery skin; and popped the beautiful red rubies out of the shell; landing all over the table. As we ate these ruby red seeds, I asked him what they were. “Chinese apples” he said. Years later, I learned another word for Chinese apple was Pomegranate. Those lovely ruby seeds will always remind me of him.