The Harvest

The text went out every year near the same time with the simple message, “It’s cider time, my friends! - this Sunday,” with no other instruction necessary for the experienced ones because they knew to start gathering their boots and autumn layers for this annual get-together. Plaid and knitted wool heaps gathered by the doors in anticipation, as if the clothing items were eager pets waiting to go outside.

Sunday came, cars arriving on their unhurried schedule, some at noon, some later in the day, all finding out-of-the-way nooks and gently sloped banks along the driveway to park. Homemade platters were carried to the weathered picnic table, and baskets of beverages were added to the galvanized tub.

Friends hugged and helloed - some needing introductions and others who just gave a mutual pat on the back, which is the low-key language meaning ‘nice to see you - glad you’re here.’

Everyone rolled up their sleeves, physically - not just figuratively, and started pitching in where needed. Apples were washed, jars were filled, and pulp was wheeled into the woods for a midnight snack for the critters and deer.

Stories were shared, and others were caught up with life happenings, and some just worked quietly with rhythm and enjoyment as their only thought. As the sun grew low and tummies began to grumble, plates were piled high, soup bowls were steaming, and a hearty clink of the glasses cheered on this special harvest day.

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Photos by me. Story is fictional (sort of).

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