Hard Cider by Barbara Stark-Nemon

Author:Barbara Stark-Nemon
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: She Writes Press
Published: 2018-12-07T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 14

We passed the remainder of the evening at the Leytons’ pleasantly, chatting with neighbors about whose orchard needed replanting, whose medical conditions had resolved, and what predictions were possible for the winter that lay ahead. The farmers’ preoccupation with weather had deepened the past season after a freak thaw followed by hard freeze in the spring had destroyed more than half of the year’s cherry crop. With a business plan for hard cider production in the works, my interest in these conversations was no longer casual. Charles Aiken’s careful pruning session just before the thaw and storm had minimized damage to his young trees and they’d come through well. As the trees were only now coming into their bearing years, keeping them sturdy and healthy was a priority.

Doug Moran, whose orchard lay at the south end of our property, dug the toe of his work boot into hard dirt surrounding one of the fire barrels, the flickering shadows of firelight accenting the furrow between his eyebrows. “I’ll be pulling out the front five acres of cherries in March. Would have waited another year but the freeze caused too much breakage.”

Our family had picked in that orchard for years, resulting in many a cherry pie and bottle of vishnik, a cherry liqueur prepared from an ancestral Stone family recipe. Visions of empty land—or worse, houses—on that corner crowded my mind.

“You’ll replant though, right?” I asked, perhaps too urgently.

“Yup,” Doug answered.

I resisted the urge to plant a kiss on his weathered cheek. How I depended on my stoic belief in this land I romanticized, and that these generations of farm families stubbornly held to.

In due time the party wound down and the chill chased us home. The young adults found their couches, board games, and electronics, and leftovers made appearances in sandwiches accompanied by cookies and beer.

I followed Steven to the room we loved the most. The den on the south side of the house had a semi-circle of windows, providing a view of the old orchard and the lake in the distance. An autumn moon shone halfway up the clear sky over the massive maple standing in the lawn between the house and the field. Blue light cooled and softened all the features of the landscape and the darkened room around us.

Steven sank into one of the pair of oversized easy chairs I’d bought thinking they would work well for reading stories to grandchildren one day. I was making my way to the matching chair when he reached for my hand and pulled me toward his lap.

I squeezed into the space next to him, half on his lap, and he began to absently scratch my back with his pinned arm.

“That was pretty fun,” I said, then waited, hoping to gauge my husband’s reaction to any of the varied people and activities of the long day. I felt content and was enjoying this intimacy. He remained quiet, so I continued, “Sophie’s been a good sport, don’t you think? Seth seems comfortable and happy around her.

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