|Carlene getting ready to drill some trees.|
|Tapping the trees and hanging buckets.|
|Pretty much done.|
We ran to hunt for wood for the fires coming back to the pot as one to a child left alone and untended too long. And then adding more sap as the water was boiled off in the crisp air.
It was a celebration of sorts not only for the syrup it produced, but of what the thawing and freezing weather portended—not the muddy season but the one that comes after. That 50 second spring that flashes into a three minute summer.
We still have our buckets and taps as well as the big blackened pot that I have never quite been able to clean. And I am sure somewhere in our chests of flannel-lined pants and long underwear that we have some clothes still smelling of sugaring wood smoke.
We post this in remembrance of those happy days of harvest and toil as well as the sweet products of success—all long gone. And we post this too in hopefulness that our thoughts of the thaw and our collective good wishes will bring our Vermont friends warmth in heart if not in weather.