Sweet Beginnings
by Catherine Young
from
Cricket Magazine March 2015
MOM PULLS UP to the top of Gramp’s farm road. "Kayo, do you have your work gloves?"
I can see Gramp setting up the syruping stove next to the spring creek at the bottom of the driveway. "Yes, Mom." I get out of the car. Mom has asked me at least four times this morning.
"Honey, have a good time with Gramp, and have a great harvest! Tell your grandpa I’m running late." Mom beeps the horn and waves, and then pulls away.
I tramp down the slushy driveway. Rivulets of water have carved the icepack into stripes of icy islands, and all of the melted water runs down to the creek at the bottom. Everything is a muddy mess. It's maple syruping time for sure.
"Hey, sweet girl!" Gramp calls to me. “Today’s the day—and how lucky we are it’s Saturday and you can help out!"
I always like it when Gramp calls me “sweet girl.” Gramp stands beside the brick trough stove built on the ground, just the right length for the long, retangular syruping pan. All of the boards to keep the fire going day and night are there, stacked half as tall as me. Gramp already has the smokestack in place and two filled barrels of maple sap on the pallet nearby. Everything looks the same as any other year—except that Grandma is missing from the scene. This will be the first spring since Grandma died last summer. More than ever, Gramp needs my help.
Faux Paw, Gramp’s black tabby cat, rubs against his legs. Faux jumps away as my big winter boots splatter the mud around the pallet. Gramp sweeps me in his huge hug. "So glad you could be here, Kayo. Sorry your family is too busy for syruping."
"I'm glad it's just you and me, Gramp."
Gramp slaps his gloves together and turns to look up to the house and the woods above it. "I think I'm ready down here. You and I need to get up into the woods and empty some pails—probably even put in a few more taps."
*
THE MARCH SNOW has thinned on the sloping field next to the house and is beginning to turn slushy in the woods. Snow shadows are brilliant purple under the blue sky. Gramp and I climb to the top of the field where the collection barrels sit. White pails decorate the maple trees all across the hillside.
Gramp carries his brace and bit, and I carry the pail of spiles. The metal cones look like the cocoons of some strange insect, or like the caddis fly larvae tubes attached to the rocks in Gramp’s spring creek. I run my fingers along a spile. A tiny slit along the top of the cone lets the sap enter the spile and drip down into the bucket—or into my mouth if I crouch beneath one. I love catching a few of the sweet drips on my tongue.
The youngest of the tapping trees look like poles with bubbly gray bark, and I can easily get my arms around them. But the oldest maples would take the outstretched arms of three people to circle them. One of my favorite trees is so old that parts of its crown are broken, but it’s trunk can hold three buckets. Small circular scars from old tappings cover the tree's south side. The scars from the last few years are still holes, not yet filled in. The healed scars look like buttons made of wood. When I was little, I used to pretend they were buttons on a magic elevator. I still love the way they feel. I wonder how a tree can do that—heal a hole so completely.
Gramp chooses a tree that's not been tapped before, pushes the bit into the bark level with his chest, and turns the brace. Once the bit is set in the wood, I try turning the brace.
"Push firm," says Gramp. "In another year, Kayo, you might be tall enough to do this yourself. You are certainly strong enough."
Gramp finishes drilling the hole, then taps the spile into it with a rubber mallet. Immediately the sap flows out to the lip of the spile. I hurry to hook on a bucket.
"You know, Kayo, the old-timers used to say this place was the sugar camp for the Native Americans who lived here."
"Is that true, Gramp?"
"I believe it is. These trees sprouted from others. And that spring creek down there makes this an ideal sugar bush."
When it's time to empty the full buckets, we lift the heavy pails from their hooks and head downhill. The journey to the barrels at the bottom of the slope is long and slippery, and we have to step sideways, very slowly.
As I empty the last pail, Gramp asks, "Remember when you were little and you slid with your bucket?"
"Yeah, I do."
"Everyone said you were too little to help carry the sap down to the barrels, but you were determined. You had just a bit in your pail and were holding on tight to the handle with two hands, when you started to slip. The bucket went down on the ice and began to slide away from you—so you went down on the ice, too, and held on, sliding on your belly, head first, keeping your hand on the bucket. You wouldn't let go, and you saved that sap. That's determination."
That's the way Gramp always finishes the story. I remember bright snow and wetness on my face and careening down the hill between trees. "Grandma always told me to hold on to the bucket, no matter what."
*
DOWN AT THE STOVE, we are ready to scoop sap from the barrels to the pan. I plunge a pail into the first barrel. Sapsicles swirl around in chunks. It's strange how sap always looks bluish—unless it's too old. Then it looks yellow, and it's not good for anything. Now though, the sap is cold and delicious: a sweet water. I pull a moth out of the barrel. It flutters from my hand into the cold air.
When Gramp and I watch over the boil together, it's Gramp’s job to slip boards under the pan—just enough to keep the fire burning steadily, but not enough to cover the coals and lose heat and time. My job is to scoop sap from the barrels and pour it through a strainer into the pan. Everytime I add sap, the rumbling in the pan quiets to a hiss.
"Kayo," Gramp says, "I'm really going to need your help tonight. Grandma and I took turns. You’ll have to be very careful around the stove."
"Yes, I know. I can do it, Gramp."
We work at the stove all day and into the night, taking a short break for supper. Finally Gramp says, "It looks like we're doing fine here, Kayo. I'm ready to take my shift alone. Off to bed with you."
*
AT TWO O'CLOCK in the morning the alarm clock goes off. I throw on my snowsuit, hat, scarf, and thick farm boots. At the pan, Gramp hands me a thermos of hot tea and a cup and gives me a kiss on the cheek before heading up to the house to sleep.
A plume of white steam rises straight up into the starry sky. The sap pan is vibrating with a steady boiling song. Beneath the long metal pan, coals glow bright orange. If I stand close to the opening of the stove, I can warm my boots. I love this—when everything is quiet except for the rumbling and hissing sap in the pan, and the creek. I scoop sap from the barrel and pour it into the pan. The rumbling stops for a while. I slide a few boards into the coals under the pan to get the heat going again.
The creek sings louder on cold nights. I think about what Gramp said about this place. Was this a sugar camp before it was a farm? How could people long ago boil sap without a metal pan?
I look at my watch. Three o'clock. I put more wood under the pan, then take a seat on a log nearby. Even close to the warm stove, it’s real cold.
Faux Paw shows up and rubs against my leg. "What is it, Faux Paw? Are you cold, too?" I try to lift her up, but she jumps away and disappears, as if something's bothering her.
I stand up and stretch. When I lean back, I see the stars. In this cold they seem extra silvery blue. Is Grandma up there?
Then I see the kitty coming back down the driveway toward me, but something’s not right.
"Faux Paw?"
The kitty waddles strangely, low to the ground, and her tail seems fat.
"Kitty?"
Then I see something white on top of the tabby. It seems strange. As the kitty gets closer to the ring of light from the stove, I very clearly see a stripe of white fur running the length of her body, and I realize it is not Faux Paw at all. It's a real live skunk . . . heading toward me and the sap barrels!
For sure this skunk smells the sweetness and wants some of it, too. But if the skunk were to startle and spray her foul-smelling defense mechanism, all of the sap, the syrup, the pan—everything!—would be ruined.
I can’t shout or make a sudden move. I need to stay calm and nonthreatening. But somehow I’ve got to get the skunk to go away.
I hum real soft. The skunk halts its steps to listen.
Maybe skunks like music? Something soothing . . . maybe a lullaby? I stand real still and sing slow and soft the first song that pops into my head:
Twinkle, Twinkle little star,
How I wonder what you are.
The skunk lifts her nose and sniffs the air and looks like she’s listening. She waves her head from side to side, as if trying to decide what to do. I sing as if the song itself is going to sleep:
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.
Twinkle Twinkle . . .
She wavers, and takes a step. And then my visitor just turns and walks away, swaying as she goes, until she clambers down into the creek bed and disappears. A faint trail of her scent wafts in the air, as if to make sure I know it wasn't a dream.
I plop down on the log, take deep breaths, and wait for my heart to stop racing. I pour myself a cup of hot tea before adding more wood to the fire.
*
IN THE MORNING, when I tell Gramp about my visitor, he bursts out laughing in deep guffaws, until he has to wipe tears from his eyes! I can’t believe it.
After he catches his breath, Gramp says, "You know, your grandma did exactly the same thing once—but she sang “Red River Valley”:
From this valley they say you are leaving,
Do not hasten to bid me adieu.
Just remember the Red River Valley
And the one who loved you so true . . .
Whenever I heard her humming that song, I knew she was thinking of that skunk. And if I caught her eye, we’d both smile."
Gramp pauses and sighs. "Kayo, you're a terrific granddaughter. Not only did you save the sap when you were little, now you've saved the sap and the syrup."
Gramp puts his arms around me.
"Come on, sweet girl. Let’s celebrate our maple harvest. I'll start the pancakes, and we'll bring them down to the pan for some sweetness."
Gramp and I turn and walk toward the house as the maple syrup bubbles and sings in the pan, I think about the new season just beginning.
by Catherine Young
from
Cricket Magazine March 2015
MOM PULLS UP to the top of Gramp’s farm road. "Kayo, do you have your work gloves?"
I can see Gramp setting up the syruping stove next to the spring creek at the bottom of the driveway. "Yes, Mom." I get out of the car. Mom has asked me at least four times this morning.
"Honey, have a good time with Gramp, and have a great harvest! Tell your grandpa I’m running late." Mom beeps the horn and waves, and then pulls away.
I tramp down the slushy driveway. Rivulets of water have carved the icepack into stripes of icy islands, and all of the melted water runs down to the creek at the bottom. Everything is a muddy mess. It's maple syruping time for sure.
"Hey, sweet girl!" Gramp calls to me. “Today’s the day—and how lucky we are it’s Saturday and you can help out!"
I always like it when Gramp calls me “sweet girl.” Gramp stands beside the brick trough stove built on the ground, just the right length for the long, retangular syruping pan. All of the boards to keep the fire going day and night are there, stacked half as tall as me. Gramp already has the smokestack in place and two filled barrels of maple sap on the pallet nearby. Everything looks the same as any other year—except that Grandma is missing from the scene. This will be the first spring since Grandma died last summer. More than ever, Gramp needs my help.
Faux Paw, Gramp’s black tabby cat, rubs against his legs. Faux jumps away as my big winter boots splatter the mud around the pallet. Gramp sweeps me in his huge hug. "So glad you could be here, Kayo. Sorry your family is too busy for syruping."
"I'm glad it's just you and me, Gramp."
Gramp slaps his gloves together and turns to look up to the house and the woods above it. "I think I'm ready down here. You and I need to get up into the woods and empty some pails—probably even put in a few more taps."
*
THE MARCH SNOW has thinned on the sloping field next to the house and is beginning to turn slushy in the woods. Snow shadows are brilliant purple under the blue sky. Gramp and I climb to the top of the field where the collection barrels sit. White pails decorate the maple trees all across the hillside.
Gramp carries his brace and bit, and I carry the pail of spiles. The metal cones look like the cocoons of some strange insect, or like the caddis fly larvae tubes attached to the rocks in Gramp’s spring creek. I run my fingers along a spile. A tiny slit along the top of the cone lets the sap enter the spile and drip down into the bucket—or into my mouth if I crouch beneath one. I love catching a few of the sweet drips on my tongue.
The youngest of the tapping trees look like poles with bubbly gray bark, and I can easily get my arms around them. But the oldest maples would take the outstretched arms of three people to circle them. One of my favorite trees is so old that parts of its crown are broken, but it’s trunk can hold three buckets. Small circular scars from old tappings cover the tree's south side. The scars from the last few years are still holes, not yet filled in. The healed scars look like buttons made of wood. When I was little, I used to pretend they were buttons on a magic elevator. I still love the way they feel. I wonder how a tree can do that—heal a hole so completely.
Gramp chooses a tree that's not been tapped before, pushes the bit into the bark level with his chest, and turns the brace. Once the bit is set in the wood, I try turning the brace.
"Push firm," says Gramp. "In another year, Kayo, you might be tall enough to do this yourself. You are certainly strong enough."
Gramp finishes drilling the hole, then taps the spile into it with a rubber mallet. Immediately the sap flows out to the lip of the spile. I hurry to hook on a bucket.
"You know, Kayo, the old-timers used to say this place was the sugar camp for the Native Americans who lived here."
"Is that true, Gramp?"
"I believe it is. These trees sprouted from others. And that spring creek down there makes this an ideal sugar bush."
When it's time to empty the full buckets, we lift the heavy pails from their hooks and head downhill. The journey to the barrels at the bottom of the slope is long and slippery, and we have to step sideways, very slowly.
As I empty the last pail, Gramp asks, "Remember when you were little and you slid with your bucket?"
"Yeah, I do."
"Everyone said you were too little to help carry the sap down to the barrels, but you were determined. You had just a bit in your pail and were holding on tight to the handle with two hands, when you started to slip. The bucket went down on the ice and began to slide away from you—so you went down on the ice, too, and held on, sliding on your belly, head first, keeping your hand on the bucket. You wouldn't let go, and you saved that sap. That's determination."
That's the way Gramp always finishes the story. I remember bright snow and wetness on my face and careening down the hill between trees. "Grandma always told me to hold on to the bucket, no matter what."
*
DOWN AT THE STOVE, we are ready to scoop sap from the barrels to the pan. I plunge a pail into the first barrel. Sapsicles swirl around in chunks. It's strange how sap always looks bluish—unless it's too old. Then it looks yellow, and it's not good for anything. Now though, the sap is cold and delicious: a sweet water. I pull a moth out of the barrel. It flutters from my hand into the cold air.
When Gramp and I watch over the boil together, it's Gramp’s job to slip boards under the pan—just enough to keep the fire burning steadily, but not enough to cover the coals and lose heat and time. My job is to scoop sap from the barrels and pour it through a strainer into the pan. Everytime I add sap, the rumbling in the pan quiets to a hiss.
"Kayo," Gramp says, "I'm really going to need your help tonight. Grandma and I took turns. You’ll have to be very careful around the stove."
"Yes, I know. I can do it, Gramp."
We work at the stove all day and into the night, taking a short break for supper. Finally Gramp says, "It looks like we're doing fine here, Kayo. I'm ready to take my shift alone. Off to bed with you."
*
AT TWO O'CLOCK in the morning the alarm clock goes off. I throw on my snowsuit, hat, scarf, and thick farm boots. At the pan, Gramp hands me a thermos of hot tea and a cup and gives me a kiss on the cheek before heading up to the house to sleep.
A plume of white steam rises straight up into the starry sky. The sap pan is vibrating with a steady boiling song. Beneath the long metal pan, coals glow bright orange. If I stand close to the opening of the stove, I can warm my boots. I love this—when everything is quiet except for the rumbling and hissing sap in the pan, and the creek. I scoop sap from the barrel and pour it into the pan. The rumbling stops for a while. I slide a few boards into the coals under the pan to get the heat going again.
The creek sings louder on cold nights. I think about what Gramp said about this place. Was this a sugar camp before it was a farm? How could people long ago boil sap without a metal pan?
I look at my watch. Three o'clock. I put more wood under the pan, then take a seat on a log nearby. Even close to the warm stove, it’s real cold.
Faux Paw shows up and rubs against my leg. "What is it, Faux Paw? Are you cold, too?" I try to lift her up, but she jumps away and disappears, as if something's bothering her.
I stand up and stretch. When I lean back, I see the stars. In this cold they seem extra silvery blue. Is Grandma up there?
Then I see the kitty coming back down the driveway toward me, but something’s not right.
"Faux Paw?"
The kitty waddles strangely, low to the ground, and her tail seems fat.
"Kitty?"
Then I see something white on top of the tabby. It seems strange. As the kitty gets closer to the ring of light from the stove, I very clearly see a stripe of white fur running the length of her body, and I realize it is not Faux Paw at all. It's a real live skunk . . . heading toward me and the sap barrels!
For sure this skunk smells the sweetness and wants some of it, too. But if the skunk were to startle and spray her foul-smelling defense mechanism, all of the sap, the syrup, the pan—everything!—would be ruined.
I can’t shout or make a sudden move. I need to stay calm and nonthreatening. But somehow I’ve got to get the skunk to go away.
I hum real soft. The skunk halts its steps to listen.
Maybe skunks like music? Something soothing . . . maybe a lullaby? I stand real still and sing slow and soft the first song that pops into my head:
Twinkle, Twinkle little star,
How I wonder what you are.
The skunk lifts her nose and sniffs the air and looks like she’s listening. She waves her head from side to side, as if trying to decide what to do. I sing as if the song itself is going to sleep:
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.
Twinkle Twinkle . . .
She wavers, and takes a step. And then my visitor just turns and walks away, swaying as she goes, until she clambers down into the creek bed and disappears. A faint trail of her scent wafts in the air, as if to make sure I know it wasn't a dream.
I plop down on the log, take deep breaths, and wait for my heart to stop racing. I pour myself a cup of hot tea before adding more wood to the fire.
*
IN THE MORNING, when I tell Gramp about my visitor, he bursts out laughing in deep guffaws, until he has to wipe tears from his eyes! I can’t believe it.
After he catches his breath, Gramp says, "You know, your grandma did exactly the same thing once—but she sang “Red River Valley”:
From this valley they say you are leaving,
Do not hasten to bid me adieu.
Just remember the Red River Valley
And the one who loved you so true . . .
Whenever I heard her humming that song, I knew she was thinking of that skunk. And if I caught her eye, we’d both smile."
Gramp pauses and sighs. "Kayo, you're a terrific granddaughter. Not only did you save the sap when you were little, now you've saved the sap and the syrup."
Gramp puts his arms around me.
"Come on, sweet girl. Let’s celebrate our maple harvest. I'll start the pancakes, and we'll bring them down to the pan for some sweetness."
Gramp and I turn and walk toward the house as the maple syrup bubbles and sings in the pan, I think about the new season just beginning.
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