That we hand drilled holes for 120 taps, pounded 120 spiles, hung 120 buckets.
That we trudged from tree to tree in knee-deep snow with our dreams of thick syrup boiled down from gallons and gallons of sap.
And that the weather turned: the killdeer sang, a butterfly appeared, and buds on maple trees began to open signalling the end of syrup season.
As farmers we are often reminded of the importance of enjoying the task itself rather than merely anticipating its result. A well-planted field doesn't always grow, flowers don't always bloom, and sap doesn't always flow. But a sunny day spent in the company of friends brings its own joy. And even two jars of homemade maple syrup are a delicious bonus.
