A quick double knock was all that was needed. He'd tap his boots on the stone step as we entered the fragrantly warm farmhouse. The floors of wide pine welcomed us leading to a brick chimney and Crawford cook stove. It was February. Conversations always began with; "so?" As to say, good morning. He was in the kitchen making some breakfast. We'd pull up a chair at the worn kitchen table, covered with tidbits of their life.
"Jesus Huckins, it's not time yet. The calendar says it's still winter." John would say while flipping the pancakes.
"Well the calendar may say that but the weather is saying spring. We'd better start tapping."
My husband would counter. The conversation would continue with some town gossip leading into new maple techniques and usually some good life lessons. This conversation, I've learned, happens annually. The tapping debate.
I remember the warm July day when I first met John and Eliza. I was nervous, more nervous than I had been meeting Jason's parents. From all that I heard, I could tell their approval and love meant a great deal to my boyfriend. I noticed right away how confident and happy he was as soon as we stepped through the farmhouse door. It was about 10am on a Sunday. They weren't in the kitchen, so we walked through the house to the back screened-in porch. There sat a man with the newspaper covering his face, seemingly engrossed in the Sunday Times. He was quiet, but when he talked, i could tell he chose his words thoughtfully. After a few awkward exchanges, he asked me if I'd ever had a fresh peach. I said, "of course." He laughed in a grunting sort of laughy way and without a word walked off the porch toward a grove of trees. The screen door slammed, the kitty ran and John stepped slowly back onto the porch, offering me some peaches. "Here, try these." He grunted, handing me two warm peaches, which I then realized he had just picked. Holy smokes. Within minutes I had fresh peach juice running down my chin, slurping it up with the back of my hand, getting it all over my shirt. I heard boyfriend say "Enjoying that huni?!" I just smiled and said "Now I've had fresh peaches." Next thing I knew Charlie flew off the porch to begin chasing their dog, Lucy around the house. John did his laugh/grunt and said "zoom, zoom doggies." Then he began to talk about how much the heat was getting to him. He referred to boyfriend as Huckins. I liked that. I then noticed the chickens and found myself slipping off the porch to wander and explore their land. I instantly felt grounded and welcomed. After some time I came back with some eggs in my shirt and another peach in my hand, grinning from ear to ear. John did his laugh-grunt, looked at boyfriend and said "oh boy, Huckins" and pulled the newspaper back up, covering his smile. Boyfriend's face lit up. John approved.
From then on, i always thought of John and Eliza as Jason's people. His support system and encourager's.
Syrup was made yearly in the wood-fired evaporator. The two of them spent days in the sugar woods, fixing lines, expanding and trying new techniques. There was constant humor and constant lessons.
As we approached marriage, i came to rely on the Conde's as my support people as well. We were in between camper dwellers and moving into our new home. We were planning a wedding and building a house. We were constantly making decisions and feeling overwhelmed.
But on Sundays, we'd retreat to Bean Hill to re-group. We'd slow down and laugh at our current living and growing situations.
And one Sunday, we decided that we'd say our vows at the end of the raspberry rows, on the rock, overlooking the pond the following June.
At Bean Hill. On John and Eliza's land. It felt right and true.
I'll never forget husband's face that Thursday night. His phone rang, i was preparing dinner while wrangling a baby on my back. He came upstairs and looked pail. John had passed. Just hours before.
Everything stopped and we didn't believe it. On Tuesday husband and John we chatting about tapping the Canterbury sugar bush, how deep the snow was and how difficult it would be.
Husband left and went to Eliza. I sat, and rocked my baby, waiting for news. At eight, husband called and said they were all celebrating John's life. I packed up Liam and headed over to Bean Hill to celebrate with them.
Husband began tapping the sugar woods the following weekend. The weather said it was time. It was beginning to warm during the day. It was hard. We boiled in our sugar house for the first time this year. It was a spring of new beginnings. Liam's first maple season. Jason's first without John.
At night, as the steam would make it's escape out the stacks, friends gathered and told stories of John. Sometimes it still doesn't feel real. Husband made it through his first sugaring season. We began our own traditions while carrying on John's legacy.
I imagine he's looking down, laugh/grunting at husband in his high-tech sugar house. I imagine he's shaking his head, saying "Jesus, Huckins, your sugar house needs character." I imagine he's slowly, thoughtfully walking the woods and land around his home.
I imagine he's awfully proud.
