At last! It’s beginning to feel like spring. We waited a long time for this. Old man winter held a tight grip for too long. The signs are everywhere. I’m seeing birds on my walks that I haven’t seen for a while. Bluebirds, Red Wing Blackbirds, Kill Deer, Robins. And they seem to be happy about the nicer weather too. They’re expressing their delight with beautiful trilling melodies and cheerful bird songs. It’s a sound we get so used to that we most often tune it out. This time of year, it’s very welcome noise—a sure sign of spring. Take a walk and listen. Brings cheer to the heart.
The sap is running. (Not referring to myself, although that would be true too.) Maple sap. It’s a late year for the Maple trees this year. For our small operation, we tapped sixty-three trees on March 7. The first “run” was on the 9th. We usually start almost a month earlier. Since we don’t have a woodlot of our own, we use borrowed yard trees. These trees give a lot more sap than woods trees, because they have large crowns, and more exposure to sunshine. They also start producing the sap a little earlier. It’s the freezing and thawing that makes the sap run. Below freezing at night—sunshine and above freezing during the day. This year it’s really late. Could be a short season.
Three years ago we upgraded our Maple syrup operation. No longer using kitchen stoves and four-burner pans. It’s still a small operation, but now it’s inside a 10 x 14 storage barn. So nice to be able to get inside a building while working with the syrup. Used to be, I had to stand outside no matter the weather—snow, rain, cold, and wind.
Son Mike salvaged a large natural-gas burner from his job, and we mounted it on a stand. We made a stainless pan twice as big as the old ones. Not wanting to cut a hole in the barn roof to let out the steam, we mounted a hood over the evaporator, and a duct to the outside with an exhaust fan. It works very well.
Most Maple syrup operations must have a person there at all times to add wood to the fire and monitor the sap in-flow and syrup out-flow. Ours is different. Since I must still sleep at night and go to work during the day, I hooked my pan up with a level-control switch that pumps in more sap from a plastic barrel when the level gets too low. That way it can keep right on cooking. I usually finish off a batch each evening when the sap is running well.
On the average we finish off around sixty gallons of syrup a year. The last couple seasons were exceptional, and we were able to finish off 70 gallons each of those years. I suppose commercial producers might laugh at our operation, but I don’t worry about it. It’s the best we can do with the available resources.
On my walk last evening down Zuercher Road, I spoke with three Amish boys who were driving a little old tractor, pulling a trailer with a sap-collection container in it. They were out gathering sap, and said some of the trees gave quite a bit. A couple of them were Orley and Ada’s boys. They lost their Daddy, Orley, last summer in a freak accident. He was only thirty-six, a much loved teacher at an Amish school. Orley loved his teaching job, and that was obvious to anyone who knew him too. I remember the times he stopped at my house, while riding his bicycle home from school. I was cooking Maple sap at the time, and he wanted to ask some questions about it. He was hoping to tap his own trees and teach his students about it. He did so, and now his boys are continuing the process.
Orley died at his summer job—the other job he loved. He was a tour guide at an animal park, where he drove a team of horses pulling a wagon-load of people. Having been raised with driving horses and prized Haflingers, he was an expert horseman, and loved them. And always the teacher, he loved talking with the people he was showing through the farm. He was leaning on a brace when it broke, and he fell off the front end of the wagon. This spooked the horses, they took off running, and Orley was run over. So tragic. I pray for this young family every day as I walk past their place. I don’t know them well enough to be of comfort otherwise, but I can do that much. Six children, and a mother left to raise them without a husband. My heart hurts for them.
And then there’s Orley’s mother, Betty. She’s lost so much too. Many years ago her Dad died in a drowning accident in the Mohican River. At the age of forty-nine, her husband died suddenly from a heart-attack. Now, her only son, who lived next door, died in this tragic accident. All the men most important to her are gone. She must go on living, but her days must be filled with sorrow. I pray for her too.
There have been other very sad events in our community lately. A young Amish boy died from an accidental shooting. It was his brother who will have to carry a lifetime burden, and parents who will always grieve.
Another young family who lives in Kidron lost their little boy a couple weeks ago to a sudden illness. Their pain is still so raw.
The community surrounds these loved ones with words of comfort and acts of kindness. We may not be able to solve all the problems in the world, or give help to all those who need it, but each of us can show love and care for those around us in our own small corner of the world. And even if we can’t do much in a tangible way, we can still pray.
Walking is a good time to think. And sometimes I think about these things, about life, and the uncertainty of it. As mortals, only God knows the number of our days. It’s up to us to make the best of them, to love our neighbors, and to be thankful. How did Jesus say it? “Love God with all your heart, and your neighbor as yourself.” It's a great way to live.
From Kidron, Ohio, we end our thoughts with the suggestion to take a little time today to step outside and breathe the cool fresh air. Maybe pick up a few sticks that were blown down during the winter. Look around for signs of life peeking through ground. Listen to the birds. Be grateful for life. It is a daily gift.
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