September 26th, 2013
Heading into the fall, my husband, Mark, and I decided we’d like to make a year’s supply of hard cider. The task required little more than a huge amount of apples, tons of time and the proper equipment. Over the next couple of weeks we picked a lot of apples — I lost count, but let’s say 14,052 — from our four trees and procured a vintage but working meat grinder that served admirably to grind the apples into a fine pomace, which we then made into cider with a press Mark had built several years ago.
I’ve grown accustomed to seeing a lot of different cars, trucks, motorcycles, tractors and even deer chugging out of our dirt road and exiting onto Plank Road in Bristol during the past 20 years.
But what I saw a week ago Friday caused me to do a double take. No, make that a triple take.
Mid-way into my turn I found myself braking for none other than the Three Little Pigs, who had mounted a successful porcine prison break from their fenced-in house of sticks at our neighbors’ place.
The Poet: Deb Chadwick, a retired social worker, began writing poems to deal with an important loss, and then continued because she fell in love with the written word. She is a member of the Poetry Society of Vermont.
The Poem: Poets are not generally calm and peaceful people, protected from pain. Life is painful, and we need to share that pain … not for sympathy alone, but for the recognition of our common humanity. Poets and non-poets alike seek community. Poets are blest, or cursed, with a need to share, and to share dramatically … in words!