Grass Burning

“Hey boys,” Dale addressed his oldest two sons. “I'm going to burn grass. Care to join?"

Caleb and Scott looked up from their respective activities with their excitement and anticipation written plainly across their faces. There is a short list of items that will almost always immediately peak any boy's interest. Right at the vary top of that list is fire. Fire is held in such high regards by most boys that Dale knew that his question was more or less rhetorical. So much so that his oldest two children didn't even bother to answer him. They simply leaped to their feet and made a beeline to the basement door where they grabbed their work coats and barn boots.

“I thought so,” Dale nodded with a smile on his face. “Grab a couple of pitchforks and meet me down by the milk house.”

Caleb nodded as Scott zipped up the front of his coat. They walked out the back porch door and turned left. Scott ran up to the Yankee barn and Caleb made his way to the long barn. They both emerged from their respective buildings with a pitchfork in hand and headed towards the milk house. Scott carried his three-pronged pitchfork straight down the hill while Caleb chose a path in between the house and the summer house. Much to their disappointment, they both made it to their rendezvous point at the same time.

“I guess neither way is faster,” Caleb commented matter-of-factly.

“Guess not,” Scott agreed with little enthusiasm. “But at least I got the three-pronger,” he finished with a smile, referring to his pitchfork.

“Big deal,” Caleb scoffed. “You act like fewer prongs are better. Dad and I will both have four-prongers which means we'll be able to burn twenty-five percent more grass than you.”

Their father emerged from the bottom of the big bank barn carrying his own pitchfork which drew the boy's discussion to an abrupt close. (The discussion was closed by their father's presence, not the pitchfork he carried. Scott did manage to deploy an exaggerated eye roll which somehow left him feeling like he had the last word.) Truth be told, the three-pronged pitchfork was the preferred tool. The four-pronged pitchforks were common on the farm and there were a couple five-pronged pitchforks up in the mow with the chopped straw but for some reason there was just the one three-pronger.

“Okay, boys,” Dale addressed his pitchfork wielding sons. He washed the manure off his rubber boots with a bucket of water drawn from the watering trough before continuing. “We're heading across the crick. And watch how you carry those things.”

The Henning men walked three abreast down the gravel drive with the manure pit to the left and a pasture to the right. They crossed the creek and Dale motioned them over to the hay field to the right. Dead brown grass and alfalfa covered the ground in a matted manner as signs of new growth attempted to make themselves known through the thick cover. A green shoot stuck up through here, a maple sapling pushed it's way through there. Spring had sprung, but there was some work to be done before the field in front of them realized this fact. 

Dale walked a few feet into the field and bent down. He pulled an old pill bottle from his pocket, removed the child proof cap, and gently shook three wooden blue-tipped matches into his large calloused palm. He kept one for himself and handed the other two to his sons. 

“Okay,” he began as he stretched out his arms in front of him at a forty-five degree angle and pointed into the field. “Each of you walk about twenty-five steps out, strike your match, and light the grass on fire.”

“What are we supposed to strike these on?” Scott asked, obviously confused.

“These are 'strike anywhere' matches,” Dale explained. “Just pick up a rock and strike it on that. Some people strike them on a tight spot on their jeans.”

Both boys looked at their pants with disappointment as they realized that they were wearing uniform pants instead of jeans. They sighed to themselves as their father chuckled. Caleb bent down and picked up a couple of pieces of rough granite and tossed one to his younger brother. Scott nodded his thanks and started counting steps. When he got to twenty-five, he stuck his pitchfork into ground and knelt down. He pressed the tip of the match firmly against the stone and jerked it across the semi-rough surface. The smell of sulfur burned the young man's nose as the match tip flared to life. He tentatively held the match to the dry grass and a lazy flame began to grow and spread outward. He lit a couple more spots before the flame of the match got too close to his fingers. He stood up and watched as flames moved slowly across the grass leaving charred ashes behind. 

“Use your pitchfork to fluff up the grass and spread the fire to other spots,” Dale called from his spot.

Caleb and Scott nodded as they worked their areas. Scott stuck his pitchfork under the surface of the matted dead grass and fluffed it up. The flames flared up slightly as they reached the fluffed grass. Scott smiled at the improved results and continued his fluffing endeavors. He watched his dad use his pitchfork to scoop up a clump of burning grass and drop it in a fresh spot. The newly planted flame quickly began spreading to the dead grass around it. Scott followed his fathers example with similarly positive results.

“Hey dad,” Scott addressed his father. “Are we going to burn grass on every field?”

“No,” Dale replied much to his son's disappointment. “I didn't get the last cutting off this field before the snow hit. That's why there's so much growth on this field. The rest of the hay fields were short enough before winter.”

“What about the pastures?” Caleb interjected. “They're pretty overgrown.”

“Sorry to disappoint you guys again,” Dale began with a smile. “But I'll just be brush hogging the pastures.”

“Aww,” Scott replied. “Hey, why do we need to burn the fields anyway? Not that I'm complaining...”

“The old dead growth will smother the new growth if we leave it alone,” his father explained. “The dead grass doesn't burn very hot so the fire won't hurt the new growth underneath. Besides that, the ashed will act as a kind of fertilizer for the hay.”

Both boys nodded, satisfied with their father's answer, turned back to their own sections of the field. The rest of the afternoon went by relatively devoid of conversation as the bi-generational grass burning crew continued their work. The fire never got too big to handle. The limited fuel source and the close supervision of the crew were sufficient enough to ensure that fact. 

Scott rested his chin on the handle of his pitchfork for a moment and stared at the small fire in front of him. The flames before him were mesmerizing and the smell of the smoke was oddly invigorating. There he was, standing on the charred ground, watching the field burn and that was exactly what he was supposed to be doing. That would not be true any other time of the year. Usually, when he got caught playing with fire, he got in trouble for it, but not today. Today, his fire shenanigans were not only adult supervised, but father sanctioned. On this beautiful spring day, all was right in the world.

“Hey Scott,” Dale interrupted his younger son's silent musings. “Your fire is about to go out.”

Good Fences Make a Good Herd

“Okay boys, load 'em up,” Dale instructed his two oldest sons. “We've got a lot of work to do."

Fifteen-year-old Caleb and thirteen-year-old Scott nodded as they began loading eight foot locust posts onto the forks of the Gehl skid loader. It was early spring and the family was weeks away from putting the heard of mixed breed cows out to pasture for the first time of the new year. Their father had made his rounds on the pasture perimeters a few days earlier, making notes of repairs that needed to be made. With a dozen posts on the forks of the red skid steer, a red hydraulic post driver on the front end of the of the John Deere 4020, a bucket of fence maintenance tools, and a spool of barbed wire, the Henning trio was ready to go.

“Caleb, you drive the skid steer,” Dale instructed his oldest son. “Scott, you're riding shotgun,” he tapped the left fender of the tractor as he addressed his second son.

Both boys were eager to oblige. Caleb climbed into the cab of the skid steer and turned the key, bringing the diesel engine to life. He grasped both joysticks and pushed the left one forward, causing the machine to surge forward. Scott climbed up onto his father's tractor and sat on the fender, firmly grasping the ends to ensure the continued stability of his position on the large machine. Dale put the tractor in gear and let his foot off the clutch. The tractor surged forward, quickly overtaking the skid loader on the way to the pasture.

Scott watched the deep treads of the large tractor tire pass withing inches of his fingers. Being so close to the tires made him feel like he was getting away with something. All he had to do was stretch his fingers toward the tires and the tread woulds hit his hand. It might hurt or it might not, but he wasn't going to find out. He smiled to himself as he looked out towards the lower pasture to the east. A cool spring breeze tussled his sandy blond hair as the warmth of the sun spread across his chest. The contrast of the cool wind against the sun's warmth caused goosebumps to spread across the young man's arms. His body twitched as a shiver ran down his spine, causing a slight chuckle to escape the boy's lips.

“What are you laughing about?” Dale asked over the sound of the engine.

“Nothing,” Scott replied. “I just got a chill.”

The boy's father nodded as he turned the tractor down a slight incline into the hickory pasture. The hickory pasture was named for the line of hickory and pig hickory trees that ran with the west fence that separated the pasture from the oil well drive. (The difference between hickory trees and pig hickorys was in their nuts. The hickory nut was edible while the pig hickory nut was not.) Every pasture had a name to distinguish it from the others. The pasture directly across from the hickory pasture was referred to as the pie pasture because of it's triangular shape. The next one up the hill was the cherry tree pasture, named for the wild cherry trees that grew within it's boundaries. The next pasture up the hill was called the hill pasture because it was the steepest part of the large hill. The pasture below the hickory pasture was called the heifer pasture. This was for two reasons. There was an old barn that sat on the western fence line that was built specifically for heifers, though it hadn't been used to house heifers for years. The pasture was also used primarily for heifers because a large portion of the pasture was wet and muddy. Dale didn't put milking cows in that pasture because he didn't like them coming back to the barn with their udders covered in mud. 

Dale guided his tractor through the grass towards the east fence. He pulled up to a post that appeared to be leaning heavily to the outside. As they got closer, it became obvious to the rider that the post had broken off at the ground and was only being held upright by the barbed wire that was attached to the post. The tractor stopped a few feet short of the fence and the father and son dismounted. Dale pulled the fencing bucket out of the side box and started rummaging through the contents in search of his fencing pliers. He pulled them out just as his eldest son pulled up with the skid loader.

“We're starting with this one,” he stated over the drone of the dueling diesel engines.

Dale approached the sagging post with the pliers in hand. The fencing pliers were specifically designed for the task at hand. The business end of the tool was shaped kinda like a pterodactyl head. One jaw had a blunt side that could be used as a hammer while the other side came to a point. The actual jaw of the pliers was pointed with relief divots withing the jaw which gave it a beak like quality. Dale grasped the old staples with the beak shaped jaws of the pliers and rolled the curved part of the jaw across the old locust post, effectively removing the staple and freeing the first of four barbed wire strands. The next three staples were removed with equal efficiency and the post was tossed aside. Scott picked up a new post and carried it towards the fence as Caleb mounted the tractor. 

He put the tractor in gear and watched his father's upraised hands for directions. He inched the tractor forwards until Dale's hand clenched into a tight fist. Caleb hit the brakes, bringing the large piece of machinery to an immediate stop. He put it in park and dismounted. Dale took the eight foot long locust post from his second son and stood it up in the cavity of the red post pounding attachment on the front of the 4020. The post pounder was made up of an eight foot long chamber that was completely open on the front. The chamber was about eight inches deep and just as wide. There was a large steel plate on the end of a hydraulic cylinder that was controlled by a lever on the side of the pounding chamber. A large spring ran parallel to the cylinder t assist with retracting the pounding plate. The chamber could be adjusted to plumb by one crank handle on the side and one on the back. Dale adjusted the plumb of the pounder until he was satisfied that it was standing straight up and down before grabbing the lever.

“Okay, boys,” he addressed his sons. “Stand back and keep your hands clear.”

The boys eagerly obliged as their father pushed the lever forward. The engine of the tractor labored as the post ponder drew power. The cylinder pushed the pounding plate down with considerable force causing a loud crack as the plate made contact with the top of the hardwood post. The spring clanged against the cylinder as Dale pulled the lever towards him causing the plate to retract. He pushed the lever forward again, striking the post again before the plate retracted to the top. Every time the plate hit, he post was driven a little further into to ground. Every time the pounding plate hit the post, it took just a little longer to reach the top again. Finally, after about a minute of rhythmic pounding, the pounder maxed out. Caleb backed the tractor away from the newly planted post which was now half buried in the grassy pasture.

Dale gave his son the signal to shut down the tractor and turned to Scott.

“Hand me the Chicago slugger.”

Scott reached into the bucket and handed his father a twenty-two ounce straight claw framing hammer with electrical tape wrapped around the handle. The boys never asked why their father referred to this particular hammer as “the Chicago slugger” and Dale never offered an explanation. Everyone seemed to agree that this hammer was the slugger simply because it was the slugger and no other explanation was necessary. Dale pulled a large staple out of an old soup can and proceeded to fastened the barbed wire to the new post. The boys watched in amazement as he skillfully drove each staple tightly with only three well aimed hits. The only wire that didn't get fastened with the staple was the top wire. A porcelain insulator with a hole all the way through the center was fastened to the post with a sixteen penny nail. The wire was fastened to the insulator with a short piece of bailing wire. The top wire of the fence was electrified to discourage the herd from pushing through the boundaries of the pasture.

“Dad,” Scott ventured. “Why don't you electrify the other wires?”

“You don't really need to,” Dale responded. “Seasoned milking cows are already used to being put out to pasture. Besides, if you don't run any juice through the bottom wire, the cows will eat the grass under the fence and keep it clear of any growth that would short out the fence. An electric fence is useless if it gets grounded out by tall grass. The other option is to send you out here once a month with the weedeater to knock down the tall growth.”

“I like your plan better,” Caleb smiled as his younger brother nodded in agreement.

The three men shared a chuckle before moving on to the next problem post. The rest of the afternoon went by fairly quickly. The fence repair crew replaced several posts and addressed several other issues. Finally, they came to a section of the fence where the one of the wires sagged low enough to touch the wire underneath. Dale walked over to the corner post and pulled the wire as tightly as he could by hand. He directed one of the boys to hold it in place as he pulled the fencing pliers from his back pocket. He gripped the wire in the jaw of the pliers on the handle side of the pivot point. He braced the jaw of the pliers against the post and pulled the wire even tighter by using the post as a fulcrum. He directed his other son to hold the pliers while he grabbed the slugger and a fresh staple. He pounded the staple in tight and directed his sons to let go of the wire. He nodded with satisfaction at the tautness of the wire.

“Well,” the eldest Henning mused. “I guess that's about it. Caleb, I'd like you to take the 4020 back to the barn and turn on the fencer so we can check to make sure there's juice everywhere we want it. Whistle when it's on and then bring the three wheeler back out.”

“Okie dokie,” Caleb responded with satisfaction as he mounted the large tractor.

“What are we going to do?” Scott inquired of his father.

“We're going to load all the posts onto the skid steer,” Dale replied. “And when we get the signal, we're going to check the fence.”

“How are we going to do that?” Scott asked apprehensively.

“You feel shocks, right?” his father replied with a slight grin on his face. “I'm kidding,” he continued as Scott's eyes widened. “I'll show you when we get to that point.”

Scott sighed in relief as he and his father set to work piling the old posts onto the forks of the skid loader. They made good time because the posts were lighter than the new ones that they had brought out. They were completely dried out from standing in the sun and most of them were shorter from rotting and breaking off just below ground. They had just tossed the last post on the forks when they heard a clear two tone whistle sound out across the clear spring air. Dale turned towards the barn and whistled a three tone progression in response and waited. Hearing no response, he turned back to the fence satisfied that his oldest son had heard his response.

He picked up a steel rod that was about four feet long. He walked over to the fence and stuck the end of the rod into the ground and motioned for Scott to watch. He pulled his pen from his breast pocket and pushed the rod against the point of one of the barbs. The contact of the two pieces of metal resulted in a spark that was both visible and audible. The spark sounded like a tooth pick snapping.

“Wow,” Scott commented. “I guess we have juice.”

“Yes we do,” his father agreed as the two of them walked along the fence, checking for electricity every twenty or thirty feet. 

Just as they finished, Caleb drove the Honda 350 three wheeler into the pasture. Dale and Scott met him at the skid loader. Dale climbed into the skid loader and Scott hopped onto the back rack of the three wheeler and allowed his feet to dangle as he faced away from the direction of travel. The boys headed back, being careful to act responsibly because they knew their father was following. They parked the three wheeler between the house and the summer house and watched as their father dumped his payload onto the burn pile. He parked and joined his sons as they walked into the back porch.

“How'd you do?” Christa inquired of the trio.

“We did good,” Dale replied with a satisfied nod. “We accomplished what we intended. You can't ask for much more than that.”

Coffee By Non-Standard Application

Scott groggily dragged himself from the comfort of the bottom bunk of the bunk bed he shared with his younger brother and looked towards the window. He sighed as the darkness outside confirmed what he already knew to be true. It was way too early for him to want to be out of bed. He grudgingly pulled on his uniform pants and felt his way around his waist as he threaded his leather belt through the belt loops. He pulled a t-shirt over his head and tossed a uniform shirt across his shoulders without bothering with the buttons. It seemed that one button was all he could handle at the moment. He stumbled down the stairs, allowing his right shoulder to rub the wall of the stairwell until he got closer to the bottom where the horse hair plaster had fallen away, leaving slatted voids in the old papered walls.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he felt around until he found the doorknob. He pressed a little lever on the side of the knob stem, disengaging the latch before pushing the door open against a spring at the top of the door. (The doorknobs in the farmhouse did not turn. Instead they had small levers that worked the latching mechanism. The stairway door sometimes had a spring at the top of the door. Depending on the season, Dale preferred that the door to the upstairs be closed at all times because the house was drafty and it was hard to keep the first level of the home warm when all the heat rose to the second level by way of the stairwell.)

Scott trudged past his father and siblings, who had all managed to get up and get their coffee with considerably less difficulty, and made a beeline for the twenty cup percolator coffee pot. He reached into the cupboard and grasped the first porcelain handle he could find. He turned the coffee mug right side up (because the mugs were all stored in the cupboard upside down and it was imperative that the mug be turned right side up before any attempt to fill it was made) and held it under the spout of the coffee pot. Once it was filled, he added a little cream from the top of a gallon of farm-fresh unpasteurized unfiltered whole milk bringing the level of medium brown liquid just a little too close to the brim of the mug. Leaving the mug on the counter, the fourteen-year-old leaned forward and noisily slurped enough of the hot liquid to allow for safe transportation of the beverage to the parlor.

Scott made his way through the darkness to a large overstuffed easy chair with a matching ottoman. He backed into the cushions, being careful to keep his mug level as he sat down. He rested the mug of coffee on the right arm of the chair, all the while maintaining his grip on the handle. He glanced at the inside of his left wrist where the face of his watch rested and concluded that he had just over thirty minutes before he would be required to move again. Against his better judgment, (if that is a thing that a fourteen-year-old might possess) he closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift away from the morning once again.

Scott made his way up to the Yankee barn and pulled one of the push mowers from the building. He bent down to check the gas and stood up to find himself at the lube shack without any recollection of how he had arrived at that location. He looked into the small building and, though he did not recognized the interior, was able to find what he sought with considerable ease. He reached into the small building where the family stored all of their gas cans, funnels, and oil receptacles and pulled an orange three gallon gas can from it's spot on the elevated floor of the shack. He filled up the tank of the lawn mower and returned the can to the shed. He turned back to the lawn mower and realized that he was standing between the summer house and the farmhouse. He had no idea how he had arrived at that location from his last, but thought nothing of it. He bent down and pushed the red bubble button that primed the engine of the mower, taking special pleasure in the faint sound of the fuel rushing into the carburetor. He stood up and reached out in front of him where the push bar of the machine materialized within the palms of his hands. He reached for the pull starter rope of the mower and gave it an energetic tug...

Scott bolted upright in the easy chair as a shower of hot coffee rained down upon his head and splashed violently across his torso. His eyes were wide with surprise and embarrassment. He brought the mostly empty mug to his lips and quickly swallowed the remaining liquid before pushing himself to his feet. He walked into the living room and made an immediate left turn to the stairway door. His father watched his second son reach for the door knob.

“What happened to you?” he asked with his tired voice thick with confusion. “Why are you wearing your coffee?”

“I was trying to start the lawn mower,” Scott replied with equal confusion. “And I forgot to set my coffee down?”

Dale chuckled as his sodden teenager continued up the stairs without elaborating. Scott returned a few minutes later with a fresh shirt. He poured himself another cup of coffee which he consumed with considerably more success at the kitchen table. The rest of the morning went by without incident. However, when the young man told the story of the morning's unfortunate events to his cousin's boyfriend, Joe only had one question.

“So,” he began with a mischievous smile on his face. “Did the mower start on the first try?”

Maple Syrup

It was a beautiful day on the Henning farm. It was early spring, but old man winter was still struggling for control. The cold fingers of his icy hands could still be felt in the form of that chill that runs down one's spine as a frigid breeze gently caresses one's neck. Scott, who was six years old at the time, pulled the hood of his jacket close as he waited to pass back into a sunny spot where the chill would temporarily give way to the warmth of the spring sunshine. The boy sat on the rear of his grandfather's wooden flat bed wagon. His feet dangled and his body swayed as the wagon jerked and lurched underneath him. The wagon was old and did not posses the suspension to soften the boy's ride against the rough terrine of the rutted woods road.

Scott watched with great interest as his older brother, his father, and two of his uncles walked swiftly from one tree to another, pulling galvanized tin pails off of trees and emptying their contents into five gallon buckets of varying colors. Every three or four trees, the men would walk back to the wagon and hand their five gallon buckets up to Scott's great uncle Clyde who emptied the contents into a large narrow mouthed vat. Uncle Clyde pulled an old tin cup off of a length of wire and dipped it into the vat. He took a sip and offered the remaining contents to the young rider who took the cup eagerly. Scott looked into the cup at the milky clear liquid before drinking the contents. The sweet taste of the maple sap washed over his tongue leaving the young man both refreshed and satisfied.

Scott glanced over his shoulder at the tractor that was pulling the wagon. His grandfather operated the old John Deere 730 with patience and skill. The road they were on was only used once a year, during the early spring. This lack of use left the road riddled with ruts and holes that had to be avoided or taken slowly enough to avoid damage to both the tractor and the wagon. The slow speed also allowed the bucket transfers to take place without having to stop the tractor at all, as long as everyone was careful. 

Scott loved collecting maple sap, mostly because he didn't have to do any of the work. A week earlier, he had gone out into the woods with his grandpa and brother to tap the trees. Tapping maple trees was a fairly simple task. It involved drilling a hole in the side of a maple tree using an old fashioned bit brace and an auger bit. A small metal spout was then driven into the hole with a hammer (this is called tapping the tree). A galvanized metal pail with an oblong hole in the side was slipped over the end of the spout and covered with a metal lid. The pail rested on the spout, collecting the maple tree's sweet sap until the collecting party returned a week later. The timing of this endeavor was critical. In the spring time, the extreme temperature fluctuation causes the sap of the tree to run, which builds enough pressure for the sap to leak out of the tree through the tap hole.

“Okay,” Uncle Jonathan called out to the rest of the crew. “I think we've got it all.”

The multi-generational crew boarded the flatbed wagon as Richard steered the rig out of the woods and onto the oil well drive. Scott watched the oil well pump arm raise and lower as the wagon went by. He thought it looked like a huge grasshopper with it's oblong head on the end of a stick body. The idea of a giant grasshopper was enough to keep the young man's mind occupied until the tractor arrived at the sugar camp.

The sugar camp, despite it's name, was not a candy covered cottage in the middle of the woods designed to attract unsuspecting children. It was a plain building sided with wood planks. There was a chimney poking out of the roof on one end that looked large in proportion to the small structure to which it belonged. The building stood on a hill and only measured about twenty feet by twenty-five feet. There were a couple of windows and two doors.

Richard backed the wagon down the hill on the north side of the building and the crew dismounted. David helped Scott down from his place on the rear of the wagon and directed him towards the small weathered building. Scott waked over to the door and reached for a piece of orange bailing twine that hung through a small hole in the door. The boy gave the string a tug which caused a hook on the inside of the door to disengage. The door swung outward and Scott stepped over the high thresh hold of the doorway into the sugar camp. He walked through the building to the other door. He opened the door and sat down on the threshold where he would be out of the way.

The limited floor space of the small building was occupied primarily by a large stack of fire wood at the east end and a large fireplace at the west end. The fire place consisted of a large, concrete box that stood three feet high and was three feet wide and six feet long. A big chimney that had been built using field stones stood at the west end of the fire box. The chimney was over three feet wide at the bottom and narrowed to about a foot and a half just before it poked through the roof of the building. Scott's grandpa immediately set to work building a fire in the fireplace, pulling from the pile of wood at the east end for fuel. 

“Hey, Caleb,” David addressed Scott's older brother. “How about you climb up into the loft and hand us the pans?”

“Okay,” Caleb responded, eager to oblige.

The loft was a platform the full width of the sugar camp that held a variety of different tapping and maple syrup equipment. There were stacks of unused buckets, five gallon buckets full of tapping spouts, a number of different lids, and three large metal pans. Caleb handed the pans down to his uncle, who brushed them out with a hand held whisk broom before wiping them out with an old bath towel that had been hanging on a nail by the door. The pans measured three feet long and two feet wide. Each pan had a lip that ran around the rim. David place the pans over the opening of the fire so that the lip of each pan rested perfectly on the concrete walls of the box. The three pans together filled the opening of the fire box perfectly which ensured that they would stay put until they were supposed to be moved.

“Alright,” Richard commented as the fire in the fire box began to ramp up. “I suppose it's time to start bucketing in the sugar water.” 

The other men in the group agreed and made their way out to the flatbed wagon. Jonathan held a five gallon bucked under a spout at the bottom of the sugar water tank. His uncle Clyde opened the valve, allowing the sweet maple nectar to flow freely into the bucket. He closed off the valve just as the level reached the top of the bucket. Jonathan waited for his second bucket to fill before carrying both of them into the sugar camp and dumping the contents into the pans. The sap hissed as it hit the hot surface of the pans. After a few trips, all three pans were full.

“Now, we just have to wait,” Dale commented. “I've got to go feed the cows. I'll check in on you guys in a little bit.”

“Take your time,” Clyde admonished. “We'll be boiling this stuff all night long.”

“All night?!” Scott exclaimed. “It's going to take all night?”

“Yes it is, Scotty,” Jonathan replied. “We have over a hundred gallons of sugar water out there. It takes a long time to boil all that down to syrup.”

Scott didn't respond. The men chuckled at his surprise and carried on with their work. After about an hour of keeping fire and pot watching, the maple sap finally started to boil. It wasn't much longer before the sap bubbled into a rolling boil. Richard and Clyde got up from their seats and started presiding over the bubbling pans. Each man held a wire mesh strainer in each hand. One strainer was used to dip out inedibles that floated to the top of the pans and toss them out into the driveway. The other was used to dip the frothy foam that built up around the edges of the pans. This was knocked into a bowl to be enjoyed by the workers when it was cool enough. When it cooled, it was a grainy sugar that tasted of maple.

When the levels in the pans got low enough, the workers would add more sugar water, bringing the level back up. When the fire burned low enough, the men would open the doors at the end of the fire box and add more wood. This was the cycle: dip out inedibles and froth, add sugar water, add firewood. Scott and Caleb watched and waited for an invitation to partake of the sugary froth.

The cycle went on and on until it got dark. Dale and Jonathan returned to the sugar camp after having finished the barn related chores. Dale sent the boys back to the house to be fed and put to bed. The sugar water had to be tended to all night long. The older generations took turns napping and tending until it was time for the morning chores. A couple of the men took their leave to take care of that responsibility. 

Finally, after hours of work, the syrup was ready to transfer from the boiling pans into jars. Richard ladled the warm maple syrup into the mason jars that Clyde held. Clyde put the two piece lids on the jars when they were full and handed them off to Dale. Dale labeled each jar denoting both the contents and the date. David and Jonathan packed the jars into homemade wooden crates and carried them out to Richards green Ford Ranger. (Richard had traded in his tractor and wagon for the truck when he had gone home to catch a few hours of sleep overnight.) 

The men jarred all the syrup except about a quart which they poured into a small pitcher and set aside. They worked to clean up the equipment using water from a spigot outside the south door. Just as they finished, Mary, Christa,  Rebecca, and a slew of children made their way down the sidewalk to the south door. Christa carried a pitcher of pancake batter and a stack of paper plates. Mary carried an electric griddle and a package of sausage links. Rebecca and some of the older children carried the other items that were needed such as cups, drinks, and silverware. Before long, the whole family was enjoying maple syrup soaked pancakes and sausage links.

“Well,” Richard declared. “I suppose we did alright this year.”

Agreement sounded out from the group around and inside the sugar camp as the entire family raised their forks in solidarity with the family patriarch.