Dad’s Journal, Saturday January 1st

Arose, made coffee, oatmeal, and a list.
Hugged and kissed spouse, and prayed.
Discussed a canoe, a massage—a birthday.
Chased, regained, attempted to retain
next door neighbor’s pet, crazy.
Climbed up and down attic staircase,
then folded stairs away.

Exercised paintbrush on desktop
and taught third grader a bit
about how to paint.  Made a lap:
dressed toddler in pink boots
and green shirt.  Went out to help
with fifth grade science experiment
before it rained—got damp anyway.

Brushed and rolled here and there.
Watched fifth grader play computer game.
Watched Popeye and the gang.
Cleaned up for dinner.  Sat down
with family and ate.  Beheld faces,
took up the graces, read books…
then wrote, and hit the hay.

Catch Again

I’m ready.  Toss the ball.
Grounders.  Pop-up.
WATCH OUT FOR THE BABY!

Whoa!  Nice one!
Good arm!
That knocked the dust off my mitt!

Whoops, crazy hop!
Get your glove up.
Switch sides, I’ve got sunglasses.

You throw what I throw.
I want to do a jump catch.
Hey!  That’s too high!

Dad, watch this…TRICKED YA!
You didn’t even know
I had a tennis ball.

Suppertime?!  Just one more
—I mean one of each—
grounders, pop-up, fastball.

Do we have to go in?
Okay.  Hey Dad?
When can we play catch again?

Sugarhouse

me and Mom looking for the apron

This is the time of year for sugaring.  Cold nights and above freezing days makes the sap run up the maple trees and out the taps.  It takes 25-40 gallons of sap to make one gallon of maple syrup.

I grew up in Vermont.  I have many fond memories of time spent with my family making syrup in the sugarhouse we built in our backyard.  Sugaring is hard work, but very rewarding.

This poem is for my dad who worked harder than the rest of us and often stayed up late to finish the boiling by himself.

my Dad

I helped to build
our sugarhouse.
It has a metal roof.
Steam escapes
through vent doors
on the cupola.

We drill the trees,
set the taps,
and hang buckets.
When sap runs,
gather it
and light the fire.

Slab wood pops
and flames roar.
The firebox doors
turn orange
and the evaporator
boils.

When syrup aprons—
when drops cling
and fall together
from a dipper—
we draw off
into a milk can.

My Dad works
very hard.
We all chip in.
The best part is
to take a little taste
now and then.

the sugarhouse