Sweet Sap

With a carton full of fresh eggs, we walked down the gravel road to check in on our neighbors. They're seventy five and we hadn't seen them since November, so we hoped they were well.  Fifty two years of marriage {or fifty five, as Jan corrects him} has gifted them a lifetime of stories, and they love to talk.  Apparently, they were loggers for more than twenty years, living as nomads, from forest to forest, with three children, many miles from town, without electricity or water.  They worked hard, laughed hard, and loved much.  I respect them more than words.  

We showed up unannounced and only intended to stay a few minutes.  Two and a half hours and a few dozen cookies later, I said that we'd better let Lawrence finish his work before dark.  When we arrived, he was making his rounds in the woods, emptying sap buckets.  Jan says he has too many trees to handle this year.  He just looks at her and walks out to the root cellar.  She says he's got a hard head.  He came back and handed us a jar filled with amber goodness...   The sweet sap, as Luke calls it.

Maple syrup and an afternoon of story telling for a carton of eggs...  I do believe we ended up on the better end of this unexpected trade.

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