I talked with my Aunts today, my father's half-sisters. We talked about family and it made me remember.
As a boy I remember attending family reunions at my grandfather's parents farm, Great-Grampa Harry and Great-Gram Grace. It was up a long, dead end, dirt road way back in the woods. The house and farm pond were situated in a vale and the big barn was across the farm yard perched on a hill. The farm yard was littered with all manner of equipment; hay bailers, tractors, old trucks, piles of wood, stacks of hay.
The family, all country folk, consisted of several distinct clans. Hard working, honest people. No airs. No judgments. I was Frank's boy, Nellie's oldest grandson, Carlton's step-grandson and, even though we were city folk, we were embraced and loved on.
The women gathered in the house, each proudly presenting their pies and cookies and delicious pot luck dishes. There was corn and peas, snap beans and radishes, all fresh from their gardens. The menfolk all retired to the barn until the meal was served. The children milled around the farm yard and the farm pond catching frogs and pollywogs.
It was 1965 when Great-Gram died and the family gathered once again for a not so happy reunion. I was 13 and I knew the drill so I headed to the farm pond with the other youngsters. It wasn't long before my father called for me.
"Yes, Dad?"
"Come with me."
I followed him up the hill to the large barn where only the menfolk went and into the dark coolness. It smelled of hay and animal stalls in the basement. The men stood in a circle shuffling their feet and we took our place among them. There wasn't much talk, but when a comment was made heads nodded. I don't remember any of the conversations, but I remember feeling special to be among them.
Someone walked over to a dusty shelf and took down a large gallon glass jar. He screwed off the top, pulled out his knife and sliced off chunks of pickled tripe, cow belly. We were all offered a piece and I remember chewing the sour, rubbery membrane. There were smiles of amusement when I made a pucker face.
Next came a mason jar of amber liquid passed around the circle. I was not offered this drink. It was explained to me later that it was called Apple Jack. Apple cider was barreled in the fall and fermented. In January the barrel was drilled and the unfrozen liquid alcohol in the center was drained. High test moonshine. It was my turn to smile at the watering eyes and choking gasps as each man took his pull.
Soon the call came from the house to gather for the meal and we all headed down the hill. No words had been spoken to me. No ritual had been conducted. Or had it? I felt different.
A coming of age.
As a boy I remember attending family reunions at my grandfather's parents farm, Great-Grampa Harry and Great-Gram Grace. It was up a long, dead end, dirt road way back in the woods. The house and farm pond were situated in a vale and the big barn was across the farm yard perched on a hill. The farm yard was littered with all manner of equipment; hay bailers, tractors, old trucks, piles of wood, stacks of hay.
The family, all country folk, consisted of several distinct clans. Hard working, honest people. No airs. No judgments. I was Frank's boy, Nellie's oldest grandson, Carlton's step-grandson and, even though we were city folk, we were embraced and loved on.
The women gathered in the house, each proudly presenting their pies and cookies and delicious pot luck dishes. There was corn and peas, snap beans and radishes, all fresh from their gardens. The menfolk all retired to the barn until the meal was served. The children milled around the farm yard and the farm pond catching frogs and pollywogs.
It was 1965 when Great-Gram died and the family gathered once again for a not so happy reunion. I was 13 and I knew the drill so I headed to the farm pond with the other youngsters. It wasn't long before my father called for me.
"Yes, Dad?"
"Come with me."
I followed him up the hill to the large barn where only the menfolk went and into the dark coolness. It smelled of hay and animal stalls in the basement. The men stood in a circle shuffling their feet and we took our place among them. There wasn't much talk, but when a comment was made heads nodded. I don't remember any of the conversations, but I remember feeling special to be among them.
Someone walked over to a dusty shelf and took down a large gallon glass jar. He screwed off the top, pulled out his knife and sliced off chunks of pickled tripe, cow belly. We were all offered a piece and I remember chewing the sour, rubbery membrane. There were smiles of amusement when I made a pucker face.
Next came a mason jar of amber liquid passed around the circle. I was not offered this drink. It was explained to me later that it was called Apple Jack. Apple cider was barreled in the fall and fermented. In January the barrel was drilled and the unfrozen liquid alcohol in the center was drained. High test moonshine. It was my turn to smile at the watering eyes and choking gasps as each man took his pull.
Soon the call came from the house to gather for the meal and we all headed down the hill. No words had been spoken to me. No ritual had been conducted. Or had it? I felt different.
A coming of age.
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