What We Nurture in Art and Life Makes All the Difference
March, Maple Syrup and Lenten Sweetness
“I think of myself as a sort of farmer; I tend the rich soil of troubled children’s lives and nurture them as they grow,” a social worker once said to me when I told her about my dreams of being a writer/farmer. Little did I know at the time that I would one day adopt a child from the foster care system.
At the time I had no idea that I would write novels about troubled adults and their children, about burnt over soil and scorched hearts.
In New York and New England, the sap starts up in the sugar maple the very day the bluebird arrives, and sugar-making begins forthwith. The bird is generally a mere disembodied voice; a rumor in the air for two or three days before it takes visible shape before you.
John Burroughs
As March begins, the life force of maple trees awakens after a long slumber. The sweet water is a gift to be transformed by human hands into amber treasure. Characters for my novels drip and then flow on to the paper—gifts my hands and heart must nurture into sweetness or at least some beginning of redemption. If you cook sap for too long, it can become bitter.
My husband was ready to throw out a “bad batch” of syrup last year, but I convinced him not to. That slight bit of off-ness tasted good to me. It’s how people are—slightly off. It’s how I like my characters. Some people want perfect heroes and perfect sweetness, but I’ve been called to the bittersweet table. All my friends sit here (real and imagined).
The late afternoon sun turned the weathered wood of the house a soft, almost pretty, gray and the birds and squirrels were still making merry in the thaw. The air was smoky and every now and then, a whiff of rich syrup flooded the air as they got closer to Joel’s fire. Everyone on Potter Hill was alive today, enjoying the sweetness of another winter nearing its end.
Joel stood with his back to them, stoking the fire beneath his kettles. Albertus, his thin face red with exertion and hope, dropped a wagonload of firewood at his father’s feet before noticing Waldo and Chauncey. Waldo halted the mare beside the house. He hadn’t the heart just yet to wipe the happiness from Albertus’ face.
“Can you smell it?” Albertus shouted as they walked up. “I’m making us maple ice first thing! It’s just about to turn. The neighbors have been up and down here all morning with wagons and sleds full of sap. What a glorious day!”
By now Joel had turned to see Chauncey sneering beside Waldo. Joel sneered back before addressing his son. “This is the year we finally get ahead.”
Chauncey grumbled.
“Don’t Phylander need you?” Joel asked Chauncey.
“Where’d you get them buckets, Joel?”
“What buckets?”
Chauncey threw up his hands and ran back to the mare as they all looked on in surprise. He jerked the mare through the snow and drove the sled so close everyone had to jump back.
“What in hell?” Joel yelled.
Chauncey leapt upon the sled. “These damned buckets! These ones!” He tossed one and then began throwing them at Joel.
“Ho! Chaunce! Hold on! What’s wrong with you?”
“These buckets! What will become of you all? Oh, for heaven’s sake, Joel! Where did you get these buckets?”
“That’s none of your concern.”
“It is my concern. We’re family.”
“Oh, so now you care about family. You didn’t care when you were trying to steal my wife, with everyone looking on.”
“You’re mad, Joel! I never!”
“You come now to glory in my luck. I see it!”
“I came to help Waldo.”
“Ha! After you drag him and Bramwell off to war! Some help you are. Go back to Phylander to wet nurse you as always while the rest of us struggle.”
“How many times has he helped you, but you always squander it! The brothers were right to cut you off.”
“Of course you say that because you want their good land.”
“If I live the year, I’ll be lucky,” Chauncey said. “I have no use for land.”
Joel’s air was knocked from him. “No, you look better now.”
Chauncey shook his head. “I’ll go see if I can’t get some of Phylander’s buckets … but he’s tapping every last tree, so I don’t know.”
“No. You stay out of my affairs. I won’t have you showing me up before Fanny.”
“For heaven’s sake, don’t be so stubborn. Look at your two boys. Scarecrows they are. You may be as fit as an ox but not these two.”
“How dare you judge! Get off my land. My sons are fine. The Fosters run slight.”
“Uncle Chauncey, we’ll be fine,” Waldo said, though he felt just as dispirited as his uncle—even more so thinking how Chauncey’s health had been wasted on the war.
Chauncey walked off to the road just as a farmer was passing. He offered the old soldier a ride, and they disappeared behind the pines. Albertus and Waldo stood staring at Joel, who sifted through the buckets grumbling about his brother and occasionally throwing the two boys hateful glances.
Fanny came out now carrying Joel’s supper of corncakes. Her shoulders slumped at the sight of the damaged buckets. “What’s happened?”
Joel turned on her and got very close to her face, his eyes bulging. “This is all your fault!” he said, spitting rage. “You and your brother have brought me nothing but pain and misery! I should have listened to everyone who said you were no good!”
Fanny stared into the fire.
Albertus and Waldo remained quiet.
Joel tossed a bucket to Waldo. “Can you fix this? Did you learn to fix anything during the war?”
Waldo looked the bucket over.
“No. You can’t fix anything. None of my sons is good for anything—not a one!”
“Stop it, Joel,” Fanny said.
“I worked for everyone—gave my best years to everyone around the pond and for what? I’ve always been cursed. If I touch something it breaks. Why does God punish me while Charles gets everything he wants? My folks had thirteen strong and smart sons—thirteen! And all we got is weak, timid boys who won’t do me no good.”
“I hain’t weak!” Waldo said, throwing the bucket down. “You bought junk, is all!”
By the Shores of Solon Pond
When the sweet water is all collected and boiling down on the gloomy days of late winter spritzing freezing rain, it’s sometimes hard to imagine all this work is worth it. But every now and then a whiff of sweetness puffs from the clouds of evaporating sap.
Sometimes the cold weather and not-quite-dry wood conspires to keep the sap from turning. This tests the farmer’s patience. Of course, it’s the same with fostering a troubled child or writing a lost character—how much work do you want to do? How much can the reader handle before they throw up their hands. “This character is too troubled. How could anyone ever love or forgive him?”
It’s been said in reviews. “These characters are too flawed.” But I refuse to dump them into the compost heap. You can’t throw a calling away for ratings. In the world there are too many castaways. Visit a residential home for troubled children or an auction for horses and other poor critters. And guess what—some of those needing a helping hand are extremely hard to love. They resent you for trying.
I get it. Suffering is hard to witness. Worse still is knowing that our fallen natures are at the core of the world’s suffering no matter how we try to be good. This will never mean that we are supposed to give up.
For all the disappointments in a farmer’s year, it’s those times of fleeting sweetness we live for. We love orphan movies and books like Anne of Green Gables because they assure us that, despite the heartache of loss, life sends us moments of delicate and earthy joy.
In the Christian tradition Lent is a season for reflecting upon our faults and flaws—maybe standing in the cold with our regrets and failures bubbling away in our heads and hearts. This is no excuse to dive deep into despair. here and there a bluebird flits across the meadow. A scent of sweet water as it turns to something better greets you for just a second as you go to check for lambs. The promise of new life, of redemption and untold sweetness is just beyond us but it’s right in front of us too.
Books read in February:
Devils by Fyodor Dostoevsky
Silas Marner by George Eliot
Turned Inside Out: Recollections of a Private Soldier in the Army of the Potomac by Frank Wilkeson
Isn't John Burroughs the best?