CULTURE

Tapping a Maple on a Cold Vermont Morning

LadyDragonflyCC / Flickr / The Atlantic

KENNETH COSGROVE
MAY 15, 2015

Firstcamefindingthetrees.Wehadtaggedthemthatsummerloopsofred
twine,tiedtightlyaroundcraggytrunkswhenFitzhadbeenhome,whenthe
chillofwinterhadseemeddistantandunthinkable.Thetwinewouldhelpus
findtherightmaples,heexplainedthehardones,thethickones,theones
thatwouldyieldthesweetestsapeveninthesnow.
Thatyear,though,theflurriesofJanuaryhadgivenwayonlytowayward

morningfrosts.Inplaceofthesolemnsilenceoffresh-fallensnow,wewould
haveonlytheindolenceofice.ThethicksolesofFitz'sbootscrunchedthe
straysticksbeneaththem,stompingapaththatwouldbesoonbeun-pathed
bythelushnessofspring.Hesquintedashescouredthedistancefornarrow
stripsofred.Hehadglassesbackhome;Carolhadinsisted.Theyremained
folded,neatly,inacornerofhisbedstanddrawer.Itwastoosoonforglasses,
hesaid,inthejokingwaythatmadeclearhowdeeplyhebelievedit.
Fitzheavedandhuffedasheploddedthroughtheforestscrunchingcarpet,
breathmeetingairinafrenzyofhumansteam.Hehadnotplannedtobe
maple-tappingthismorning.Hehadnotplannedtoworkatall,letaloneto
spendtheseearlyhoursdoingtheblandworkrequiredofcoaxingthe
sweetnessfromtrees.Hehadplannedinsteadtohavebreakfastinbed
pancakes,hetoldmewithaglare,oozingwithbutterandfloodedwithsyrup.
Itwasbest,Itoldmyself,nottopointouttheirony.
Thebuckets,hookedtohisthickbelt,jangledasFitzwalkedcliiiiiiiiing,
claaaaaaaaang,liketheancientbellswhosepealscalledthepeopletotheir
gods.Theclatterbroketheair.Wewerestrangershere,inthisflash-frozen
forest,humanhunter-gatherersinthatmostforeignoflands:onenotofour
ownmaking.Thestill-chilledairstungmyfaceandpiercedmylungs.Ifound
myself,graduallyandthensuddenly,wishingforacigarettetowarmthewalk
somethingtoheatandsoothe.Somethingtoasted.Therearefewthingsas
smooth,Icouldnthelpbutremember,asaLuckyStrike.
"Gotone!"Fitzcalled,thetriumphinhisvoiceshakingthesilence.Hewove
hiswaytowardthetwine-markedmaple,bucketsjangling.Heexaminedthe
tree'strunk,theripplesandrunsofthebark.Hetuggedataloosestrip,
examininghowstubbornlyitclung.Fitznodded,satisfied.Hetooka
measuringtapefromhispocket,itsfreeendunfurling.Heanchoreditagainst
theroughsurface,righthandgrabbingthefreeend,runningitalongthebark

untilhishandsmetinthemiddle."Exactly18inchesaround,"hemurmured,
stillhuggingthetree."That'llwork."
"Couldyouhandmethecompass?"
Thesouthsideofthetree,Fitzhadonceexplained,getsthemostdirectlight
fromthesun.Theheat,dayafterday,wouldwarmandsoftenthesap,
makingitmorepliant,moreeasilyyieldingtoourdesiresasif,Ithought
withachuckle,ithadavaileditselfofSecorlaxatives.Fitzheldthecompassin
anoutstretchedarm,eyesnarrowedtowardthehoveringneedle.Itshooklike
aRelax-a-cizor.Hemovedslowlyaroundthenarrowperimeterofthetree
trunk,circling,slowly,until,withthestrengthofRightGuarddeodorantand
theconfidenceofRichardNixon
"Here,"hesaid.
Hehadfoundthespotforthetap.Hedrilled;hehammeredthespile.The
trunkshookwitheachimpact.Iimaginedthesapsoon,thesapslowand
sweet,itstrickleasvoluptuousasasirenwearingbothareddressandaneven
reddershadeofBelleJolielipstick.
Whatwouldhappen,Iwondered,ifwedidnotcomeback,onedaysoon,to
collectit?Whatifthesaphardened?Whatifitbecamefrozennotjustinthe
frigidair,butintime,sealingitssecretsinagoldeneggofamber?Whatifit
outlastedthelittletownsofBethlehemSteel,thecitiesconstructedwith
CartwrightAluminum,thefuturebuiltonthesandyfoundationsofLiberty
Capital?Whatif,somedayinthedistance,amanventuresthroughthissame,
tree-studdedforest,alongthelong-coveredpathFitzandIhadcarvedfor
ourselves?Whatwouldhethinkofusofwhatwedid,ofwhoweloved,of
whatwewantedtobe?Whatwouldhewant?CouldhebuyitatMencken's
DepartmentStore?
WillDr.Scholl'scushionyourpath?WillVickssilenceyourcough?Will

Kodaksaveyourmemories?WillClearasilsaveyoursoul?WhosPeggygoing
outwith?HowdidPetegetsuchaswellwife?And,God,whatisDonsdeal?
Whywontheeverhaveadrinkwithmeafterwork?Helikesme,right?He
thinksImanokayguy?Don,ifyourereadingthis,Iwouldreallylovetohave
adrinkwithyouafterwork.
Thesugarseepedfrominsidethemapletree.Itwasyieldingtous,slowly,
inevitably.Therewouldbesyrupforourpancakesforeveryonespancakes.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A graduate of Columbia University, KENNETH COSGROVE has lived in the New York
area for most of his life. Working for the advertising firm of Sterling Cooper puts Mr.
Cosgrove in a unique position to observe and study the trends that shape America
today. This is his first story to appear in The Atlantic.