3 Mar

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
when we take a little taste now and then.



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.

the sugarhouse


3 Responses to “Sugarhouse”

  1. pearlnelson March 3, 2010 at 9:25 pm #

    Just wonderful. The best part is/to have a little taste/now and then are words to live by. Loved it and how lucky that you have those memories. Pearl.

  2. slpmartin March 3, 2010 at 9:34 pm #

    When I lived in New Hampshire, I would love my visits to where they made maple syrup…you brought back fond memories for me with this poem…but I don’t miss the snnow. 🙂

  3. restorel66 March 3, 2010 at 9:59 pm #

    Thank you. Yes I am lucky to have those memories, the older I get the more I realize the truth of that, thankfully!

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