here is the story about the sugar bush

Williamsburg, MI(Zone 4b)


When we were children in the 1950’s, the neighbor used to have a sugar shack. He might be considered a Renaissance man today, but back then he was just a farmer trying to get by. He had lived through the depression and knew that a man could make his way through the labor of his hands and the sweat of his brow. He did a bit of everything while we were growing up. There were chickens in the back yard, a cow in the barn and occasionally a pink eared pig. He raised crops in the fields, mostly melons and strawberries and we children were hired to supposedly pick these fruits (We ate more than we packed in dusty wooden crates). He hunted and fished and ran trap lines in the winter, I learned how to skin beavers and put them on the stretcher to dry. I loved the softness of the mink pelts piled on the table. He did a bit of wild crafting also. He hunted native herbs like ginseng and picked mushrooms. He owned quite a bit of land and ran a small lumber business from it. I still remember the huge sawdust pile we used to play in. The most fascinating this man did to make money was perhaps the most fun also. He ran a sugar bush.

There were several people we knew who tapped maple trees and boiled the resulting sap down to maple sugar, but none ever held the same fascination for three children as did the one just down the road. Sugaring would start in early march. The metal spiles had to be taken down from the upper level of the garage and cleaned and made ready to be tapped into the trees. If they were bent, you slipped them over a pointed round of wood and tapped them with a hammer till they took back the shape they were manufactured with. Steel wool cleaned off any rust or deposits and bucket hooks were straightened or replaced. Finally all the spiles would be ready and the old farmer would watch the moon.

L.T. put a lot of stock in the moon. There was the Full Beaver Moon, when he knew to set his beaver traps. There was the Strawberry Moon in June and when it shone full on the fields; it was time to harvest the strawberries. There were moons for fishing and planting and hunting and yes, for making sap too. No matter what the weather at the moment, he never set any taps till the sap moon appeared in the icy Northern skies. As soon as the sap moon began waxing gibbous (when it was growing larger and the curve was round and pregnant, not a thin crescent) it was time to drill the holes in the trees and set the taps.


There was usually a lot of snow still on the ground and L.T. used the huge old horses to pull the sledge through the hardwood forest. He and his hands graciously allowed us children to follow along, but as I remember I was the only one who would not grow bored and wander off home. I would walk along the side of the sledge with pockets filled with the cone shaped spiles. The men would find a stately maple tree (I couldn’t tell a maple from a beech) and drill a small hole with a brace and bit drill. Then I would hand off a spile and as they tapped it into the drilled hole with a small hammer, I would run to the back of the sledge and grab a battered tin bucket from the pile. On the other side of the sledge were pieces of tin that looked like roofs for tiny houses. These fit over the top of the pail to keep rain and debris out. It didn’t always work; one of my jobs was to scoop out the dead mice that had fallen into the buckets.

I would head up to the sugar shack as soon as I got out of school in the afternoons. I went on weekends too, if I was allowed. Once the taps were all set, we would go back to the sugar shack and get things ready there. Evaporating pans needed to be cleaned and wood stacked for the fire that would burn non-stop for the next several days and nights. There was always time for a cup of hot coffee with lots of milk and maple sugar from the year before to warm and energize a little girl who was willing to help.

As the moon fulled and the sap began to run, the buckets needed to be emptied twice a day. While the snow held, the horses made the rounds, but as it melted into long fingers reaching between the trees, the old red tractor was brought into use. Whether horse or machine powered, the sledge carrying the gathering tank would be pulled through the woods and buckets would empty their sweet liquid into the tank. It was fun to hang the empty buckets back on the trees and listen to the soft “ping” and “plop” of the sap striking the bottom. There was a larger storage tank back at the shack where the sap would be kept until the full moon and then the boiling would commence.

The whole sugar shack was only about 30 feet long and had long tin troughs down the center of the room. Beneath these was the area where the wood was burned to boil the pans. Raw fresh sap came into the end of the pans at the back of the shack, as the water content was reduced, the sap would be moved to progressively smaller pans towards the front of the operation. At last the rich amber fluid would be drawn off and strained before bottling. Syrup for sale went into small cabin shaped tins and syrup for the neighbors and family went directly into glass mason jars.

Much of the time inside the sugar shack is spent watching the pans and adjusting wood fires. It takes a very long time to turn weak watery tree sap into the golden elixir of the North woods. There is a good deal of card paying and a few pulp novels read near the light of a gas lantern or window. The favorite pastime however was storytelling. Even then, children seldom witnessed storytelling of such a caliber and I felt privileged to be there among the men. Occasionally a yarn or joke was begun and when someone would remember the eager little ears in the corner. There would be a moment of silence as the story drifted out into the landscape and a new yarn would begin.

I loved nothing better than to sit in that building scented with the aroma of wood fire, pipe smoke and maple syrup. I can still taste the cups of hot half finished maple syrup that took the place of cocoa on a cold day. Dallas Layman would draw it off into a tin cup and while I sat with my steaming cup of “Maple Tea” the men would have coffee spiked with syrup or other additions, not allowed to children. Often there were cookies provided by Mrs. Knowles, or bread, cheese and salami on the rough table. Some of the men would bring in fresh smoked fish or home made ham. It was a glorious place and I always left with a Mason jar of warm maple syrup as payment.

I’m not exactly sure when they stopped using the sugar shack. When I was in high school, L.T. Knowles fell and sustained a serious head injury. The giant saw of the mill went silent, weeds overtook the strawberry fields and the cow was sold. Dallas and the hired men took other jobs. I don’t think I ever saw the L.T. outside his house again. He lived for several years and his dedicated wife was his sole caretaker to the end. I was home from college one weekend when I heard that L. T. Died. His wife followed him soon after.

After I was married and had a child of my own, I stood outside the old farmstead. It was an early spring day and the moon was waxing. I sniffed the air and thought I detected a faint drift of wood smoke and maple, but there was no steam or smoke rising from the now silent sugar shack. Its roof had begun to sag and the storage tank was rusted on one side. I wanted to pull aside the weeds and pry open the door. I longed somehow, to show my little boy where I spent those early spring days during the “Running Sap Moon”.

I found a commercial sugar shack for him to tour, but it was disappointing. Everything was stainless steel and the fire was propane gas. There were no old men in flannel shirts playing cards and telling stories and no children drinking syrup from tin cups. The sap was pumped directly from the trees to the holding tanks with blue rubber hoses. No horses, no tin pails, no dead mice in the buckets. It seemed rather sad to me, as if something had been lost in the process of modernization. We bought some syrup in a plastic bottle shaped like a maple leaf. I made special pancakes the next morning, but it just didn’t taste the same. Something was missing.

Now, here I am today. Dragging buckets from four skinny maples trees in our yard. I’ve got the turkey fryer on the back deck and the sap gets poured into the big pot. 10 to 12 hours later, I bring the nearly finished syrup into the house and boil it on the kitchen stove. My son was here today and as the syrup bubbled on the burner, we shared a sandwich and some stories. There were a few times I looked up and thought I saw Old Dallas Layman, red suspenders over a plaid flannel shirt. He was in the corner, leaning his chair back on two legs. His pipe was in his hand and he had a smile on his face. It’s sugar time and I think he’d be pleased to see that I still remember how to turn crystal clear tree sap into Northern Michigan Gold.

I think I’ll make some pancakes in the morning.

Jerome, MI(Zone 5b)

That was a great story...Our farmers here..just set up the jugs on the trees..that is a sure sign of spring is coming..and I can not wait...It always surprises me..how long they have to boil the sap...I guess that is why it is so expensive..Even if it is done here...

thanks for the story it was a nice read..for sure..

lhappy day...smiles..Diana...

Hillsborough, NC(Zone 7b)

Oh you should submit that story to your local paper or a magazine. Thanks so much. I felt like I was there.

Sanford, MI(Zone 5a)

thank you so much for your story reminds me of my uncles farm and all of us kids getting a small cup of of the wonderful stuff to pour in the snow to make maple candy what wonderful memories that our children will not have to keep them warm how sad
Gloria

Fenton, MI(Zone 5b)

Oh I can small the wood and Maple syrup TOO!!
Love those memories of yours. You sure can tell a wonderful story!!
Enjoyed it much.
Julie

Gladwin, MI(Zone 5a)

Great memories. I am glad that you put them into words to be passed to others that have not experienced this. You cannot place a price on such wonderful memories.

This is something our children and grandchildren will never see, pretty sad. I am glad you are carrying on the tradition in your own small way. Sometimes the old way of doing things is better.

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