Friday morning

April 12, 2013 – Friday

24 degrees/light snow/breezy

Pentoga Road

I talked with my sister last night and Mom came through her surgery in good shape on Thursday afternoon. The hernia was quite large and I was told Mom was in a great deal of pain after, so much so, that she was kept in the hospital last night receiving pain medication via an IV drip.

She’ll go home with my sister today, spend the night, and if things go as planned, will be able to return to her own apartment Saturday. Thanks for your thoughts and prayers. I’m sure it will be a matter of days before Mom will once again be behind the wheel terrorizing the streets of Terre Haute, Indiana, with her gang of gals. There’s nothing wilder than a group of eighty-five (and older) year old ladies who are out on the town.

… and just like that, it’s winter again. Sargie rode the crest of the approaching storm home last evening. At one point, it appeared as if she’d been overtaken as a stop had to be made to clean the wet, heavy, snow from the windshield wipers. Traction was okay when using the four-wheel-drive, but visibility close to nil.  We later heard that her coworker and friend, Michelle, performed several donuts in the middle of US 2, a major highway, on her way home.

I don’t know how deep the snow is, certainly six to eight inches, give or take. I think about cleaning the drive with all that mud under the heavy snow… as Charlie Brown used to say, “Arg!” Still, it will have to be done at some point today.

Bonnie Cottrell, who lives with her husband, Max, in the Galesburg, Illinois, area, sent this very appropriate poem written by her grandfather around 1900.

Spring Poem (Mud)

The Poets will sing of the beautiful Spring,

Of the trees that early bud,

Of the flowers, the birds and most everything

Except this gol-darned mud.

'Tis enough, I declare, to make a man swear

When his wagon goes down with a thud,

And he's seven long miles from his happy home,

Completely stuck in the mud.

I like the spring, the beautiful spring;

The birds, the flowers, the bees,

But I don't feel right when I come in at night

From wading mud to my knees.

(Composed by George McDowell when there was plenty of mud)

Bonnie graduated as a music education major from my alma mater, Illinois Wesleyan University, in Bloomington, Illinois, a few years ahead of me.

I met Bonnie and Max when they were volunteers at the old Sheldon Jackson College in Sitka. In later years, they returned to Sitka where Bonnie volunteered for a non-profit and Max was employed as a math tutor at UAS. I used to enjoy dropping fresh fish filets off at their door.

Bonnie wrote yesterday that she and Max are preparing to go to Sitka for another year’s worth of volunteering and tutoring. Thanks for allowing me to publish your grandfather’s poem, Bonnie. It’s priceless.

Sargie is staying home from work today. Most of the area schools are closed. Crystal Falls isn’t opening and Iron River has a two-hour delay.

It is what it is. What it is today is snow.

I could have told anyone interested yesterday that a big storm was coming. At its high, the thermometer barely reached the freezing point, yet the sap poured from the spouts. Some bags were overflowing yet had long icicles hanging. The wind was strong and raw and simply put, gathering sap was purely miserable.

A completely frozen tap. Yet when I cleared the ice, water immediately poured out

I spent three-and-a-half hours early in the morning gathering, all the while feeding the boiler wood and keeping the evaporator pans full. At one point, I was evaporating almost as fast as I was gathering. I took a pause in the action to boil off 2 ¾’s gallons of syrup. It continues to be light colored with a very high sugar content. The quality this year is outstanding.

Getting ready to can the latest batch of syrup

I once again fed the boiler and returned to the task of gathering. Another three hours was spent late in the afternoon emptying sap bags, many overflowing. The trees still ran even when it began to snow, the temperatures dropped well below freezing, and the wind increased even more. I knew the swing in barometric pressure had to be great to force the sap to continue to flow.

At this point, I’ve got four barrels (140 gallons) completely filled. Though it shouldn’t run today, I need to spend the time boiling to make room for the next batch that will be gathered, probably tomorrow afternoon.

Those four barrels are completely filled

I’m tempted to pull the taps. After the next batch is boiled down, we’ll have close to fifteen gallons of syrup. Even giving our friends and family samples, Sargie and I will still have plenty for our own use. Maybe I ought to sell some and keep on gathering. Maybe I ought to close it all down and think about gardening. Maybe I ought to pour myself another cup of coffee, throw a log on the fire, and think deep thoughts. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do because after all, a man’s work is never done.

So are the tales from Pentoga Road…

Right off the boiler and ready for filtering and canning