Wednesday, October 24, 2012


Morning. It’s apple season around here and my brother and sister-in-law, (the masterminds and laboring hands behind Whetstone CiderWorks, a blossoming artisanal hard cider business), spend every Sunday a pressing bushels of apples with beautiful, complex names and even more beautiful and complex flavors: Dabinet, Harry Master's, Yarlington Mill, Cox's Orange Pippin, Reine de Reinette, Jonah Gold and Orleans Reinette...

I love their cider, but I also love what it brings to our hillside and our lives: weekends of apple pressings and farmers markets and children running around with dirty knees, cold fingers and sticky faces.  Which is worth a whole lot more than they’ll ever make on their artisanal cider. It turns out both of my parents' children have chosen to dedicate their lives to labors of love. Or, love of labor. But oh, how I love that word--labor--and all it now connotes! The deep, concentrated, hard work that brings forth something entirely new and original and radiantly itself. And without all of these long-labored efforts, and the beams of light they bring forth?  What a dull place the turning-cold world would be.