On a frigid winter morning dad and I are driving down the snow-covered road in his muddy pick-up, and I could see the steam rising from the sugar shanty off in the distance. I crack my window to catch a whiff of the sweet aroma of boiling sap mixed with the chilly winter air and as the sweet scent flooded through the truck window, so too did the memories.
In the heat of July I think fondly, and often about January bluebird days such as this. July is unrelenting for a farmer. The weeds and grass grow at a nearly unsustainable, breathless rate. They don’t allow for reflection, or planning, or yoga, or reading. They are devoted entirely to manual and endless labor. Every hour of the sunlit day is used and consumed by the greedy July farm.