Pressed, Not Crushed

I write this from an unstable emotional state. This usually makes for good material, right?


Fall is here

Fall is here and so is cross country

Fall is here and so are Friday night football games

Fall is here and so are warm sweatshirts and campfires

Fall is here, and so

Fall is here and so is apple cider-making. The crown of our fall tradition. This is why Grandpa Leslie and I both love fall. We love the meets, the games, the warm clothes, the cider-making.

Somehow I lived through this first week of fall without realizing grandpa is not here.

And then, then I remembered. I cannot stand to miss cider-making . . .ever since I was 8 years old and we stood out in the garage with our puffy coats and boots and hand-knitted hats and braids poking out . . . in the garage that smelled like fresh wood and apples and grandpa's cars. I cannot stand to miss that event where we wash and grind every apple and we push and we press.

And the apples have to die to produce that sweet nectar.

They must be shredded to pulp and pressed till every drop of life juice is drained. . . and fruit is strained. Not a single bit of apple left. . only pure, hard-pressed juice. Golden and sweet and tasting of autumn.

I packed all of these memories in a bag and trotted merrily to the event today only to walk into the garage and stop cold in my tracks. The press. The apples. The buckets. It was all the same. Every single piece was the same, except the hug-sharer was not there. The joy-man was missing. I took a breath and remembered . . .HE was here. He was HERE. He WAS here.

Was


And now he's not. And suddenly I wanted to be very far away.

But the crank was already turning and we set about our work to stoop down and pick up the freshly washed apples and crank and grind and crank and grind and push down the pulp and brush away yellow jackets. And we set the press down and we turned and turned the press down and down and out ran the juice like it always does. But it did not sparkle. And we did not have the little Dixie cups to "taste test" the juice like grandpa always did. Suddenly this major event became a common task, like tying my shoe.

The crop was low this year because of the drought. Not even a fourth of the apples we usually see. And the cider was bottled up to freeze until next year. . . and so were years of memories that are now frozen in time.

Thank you Jesus for the memories