FARM LIFE FROM A FARM WIFE: Tales from a syrupy love/hate relationship

There’s a group geared toward people who are addicted to (ah, I mean into) collecting sap and making maple syrup called Maple Syrup Producers of Wisconsin. There, questions and answers are pondered over. One learns there is no stupid question as well as no end to the discussion. I’ve discovered this sapping thing, now in our second year, is a love/hate undertaking.

One day, my husband and I were attending a birthday party and we sat next to a guy who loves to talk sapping. With rapt attention, my husband leaned forward, elbows resting on knees. Pretty soon I was lulled into a slow, eye-glazing-over death of interest. The pros and cons of stringing lines were getting blurry.

We collect raw sap only, with no intention of cooking any down for ourselves. When we’ve loaded up we haul it to the super friendly guys at Wagner’s Sugarhill in Tilleda, one of the largest producers in Wisconsin, they boast truthfully, and sells syrup to Woodman’s and Kroger’s Pick ’n Save. We saunter along with our tote full of booty, enjoying the freedom of not having to hurry and relishing in receiving a reward for our labor, a yellow slip tabulating how much we brought in and what it tests out at. It gets added up, and at season’s end, we get paid.

This seasonal chore most days finds me chomping at the bit to head down the road following my husband, him in the tractor carting the trailer and tote. I take our four-wheeler, loaded up with extra covers and pails, our wand pump and my lawn chair; sitting while he collects. I enjoy the fresh, earthy aroma of the woods.

Presently, after a while of collecting (about a 40-acre width), I’m like a little kid who asks, “Are we there yet?” I sigh to myself and wonder how many more stops. Before I realize it, I’ve said it out loud.

“How many more stops?”

“Only three!” Like he’s wishing for more.

Inclining his head toward a tree, his hand cupped below one ear he says with a smile, “Hear that?” The hush of the woods is only interrupted by the steady drip, drip, drip of the sap hitting the bottom of an empty pail just hung on the tap. “Listen to that music,” says he with a grin. He’s addicted.

My husband just loves the woods, is drawn to the beauty and serenity of it. He goes out hunting for the sheer pleasure of sitting in his woods. He is more likely to appreciate bow hunting over gun simply because bow hunting is an individual man-against-nature thing, is quieter and takes more skill. At any rate, this conversation isn’t about hunting. That’ll come in November. This is about sapping.

Just like farming, collecting sap is dependent on the weather, whatever is thrown our way. The other day it was raining. By the end I was drenched, all the way to my underwear, despite double-layering up on everything. Teeth chattering, I could not wait for this day’s collection to end.

Another day we had to go around with our four wheeler and dump buckets, each one with at least a 3-inch frozen block inside. Other days were custom-made for collecting, freezing nights and sunny days above freezing. It’s definitely a love/hate enterprise.

The days we get out there, wildlife surrounds us. Because we are non-threatening, we have deer sauntering along up on the ridge, unafraid of a tractor hauling a tote on a trailer with a girl hanging on, sucking sap out of buckets with a pump. They watch intently. On the way up to the woods we pass turkeys taking advantage of meals-on-wheels, hot and steamy; my husband having hauled manure on the adjacent field just before we set out.

This operation of ours is a two-person, 69-pail task, only starting out last year when we bought pails, totes and taps. This year, we added tented pail covers and really love them, as they keep all this moisture we’re getting these spring days out of the pails. My husband does the grunt work, hauling the pails down to me. If I had to do it, I’d be using the pails as a cane like a little old lady, hoisting it two steps ahead of me, taking two steps, hoisting it two steps, taking two steps. I’d be at it until August.

We have a good friend who heard I was pouring sap from a five-gallon pail into a smaller bucket and stepping onto a stool, pouring it into our tote by hand. He had a wand-pump that he wasn’t using and allowed us to borrow it saying to me, “No more pouring for you!” With a 10-foot hose, the sap gets sucked into the tote with ease, the clear liquid flowing right through the strainer at the top. How kind of our friend. We will definitely invest in one for next year.

Because we’ll be at it, come rain, snow or shine since it’s a love/hate, addictive undertaking.

Yup. Love wins out.

(“And above all these put on love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony.” Colossians 3:14)

Kay Reminger was born and raised on a dairy farm, and she married her high school sweetheart, who happened to farm for a living in Leopolis. Writing for quite a few years, she remains focused on the blessings of living the ups and downs of rural life from a farm wife’s perspective.