Cider

Earlier this fall when the leaves were turning, the three-mile walks became rich with natural beauty.  It's my favorite time of year.  Pumpkins abound, colorful trees, apples galore, and cider.  Delicious fresh sweet cider.

Some people can drink it with no ill effects.  Others can drink a small cup on their way to the bathroom and still barely get there in time.  I'm one of the lucky ones who can drink it.  Apples, applesauce, apple cake, apple pie, apple anything.  I love it all.  Especially apple cider.  But it needs to be good apple cider.  Not just any combination of apples makes for good cider.  It takes a person who knows their apples to achieve a great flavor.  They know how to blend this-variety with that-variety to get the best taste. These kinds of people will not use wormy or rotten apples, and certainly not green apples.  The equipment that presses the cider will be clean, and the apples will be washed.  Apples that drop to the ground and sustain bruises are fine too.  I learned these things many years ago from my in-laws who had a lovely orchard.  I've been an appreciative apprentice connoisseur of cider ever since.  

It always pays to be cautious though.  Even when all the rules are followed, there are exceptions. The best advice, is to drink a glass and wait a while.  If all goes well, you may satisfy your taste buds with more.  Such was my experience on a mild fall day, and the road beckoned.  After enjoying a tall glass of the fresh sweet cider, coupled with several slices of mini-marble cheese, it was time to hit the road.

What a wonderfully lovely day it was.  The trees were in the peak of their glorious fall splendor.  The air was clean and crisp.  All was well with the world.  It was an easy hike up over the long hill on Zuercher Road, and down past the Amish house where a young lady was busy hanging out the wash and singing softly in Pennsylvania Dutch.  She saw me walking by, but continued singing in a clear lilting voice.  I thought to myself; this is the life.  Even Warren Buffet could not want for more than this.  The air, the unrivaled scenic beauty, the Amish girl singing, the rustic scent of wood smoke gently drifting my direction from the kitchen chimney of the Amish home, and the taste of fresh cider still lingering on my lips.  A deep sense of contentment filled my heart.

I continued on around the S curve, striding full tilt up over the next hill, past the Millers and Troyers, until reaching Western Road - exactly 1.5 miles from home.  As is my practice, I walk over the knoll past the intersection, make a U-turn, and head back towards home.

And that's when it hit me.

It began with a slight rumble in the gut.  No!  This is not going to happen!  My pace picked up, and temporarily the feeling went away.  But not for long.  The next rumble was definitely a warning of things to come.  This would have been the moment to pull out the cell phone, and call home, but no cell phone.  There was nothing to do but keep walking, so with pressure building, I switched gears from a fast walk to the Amish lope.

When events like this happen, you are compelled to admit that occasionally things may not work out the way you desire.  You see, two forces within your body are beginning a valiant struggle to win.  One is governed by involuntary muscle contractions pushing with all their might. The other by sheer will power and desperate clenching of muscles that have developed over the years while trying to contain gas during long church services and committee meetings.  This is one of the hidden benefits of meeting regularly for worship.

In the meantime, it's a toss-up which set of muscles will win.  The brain is rapidly sending repetitive signals to your legs to move even faster.  The Swartzentruber Amish lope now takes on a variation that includes a pronounced waddle.  A wild look appears on the face.  Beads of sweat break out on the forehead.  Breathing becomes rapid, and there is an audible groan with each exhale.  The eyes begin darting around for any possible escape - a corn field, a dense woods, anything that looks like cover.  No such luck.  

Moving onward at a pace that must rival Olympic speed-walkers, I maneuver around the S curve, hoping the Amish girl is no longer hanging clothes.  She is not.  Thank goodness!  She won't see the red, anguished face and bulging eyeballs. She won't observe the crazy Englisher lurching frantically up the hill.

And then, before me lies a corn field.  Wonderful, beautiful field of corn.  Never before have I loved a corn field so much as I do at this moment.   

Back on the road, I continued the walk at a more moderate pace.  That was a close call.  The next half mile went well. The trees that five minutes ago had been mocking me, were returning to full color.  I rounded the corner at Jericho and started the last short stretch for home, and it happened again.  This time I broke into a run and made it to the back door - kicking off my shoes for the final sprint through the house.  Dear Juanita, who happened to be sitting in the living room, observed the mad rush, and asked what's wrong.

All I could do was yell over my shoulder. "Cider!"

I hesitated to share this story.  The more genteel part of me said, "Don't go there."   I did anyway.  Please forgive me.   

Signing off now, from our home on the eastern edge of Kidron, where the men love their wives, the women are patient with their men, and the children will come wandering home right about suppertime.