And my dad. My dad made maple syrup once.
I pulled onto Mom and Dad's property in April 2002. There was something attached to one of the maples. Then another and another. As I got closer, I recognized them as empty half gallon whiskey bottles, all Dad's preferred brand of Lord Calvert Canadian. They each had a tube that went from deep inside the tree to deep inside the bottle.
Dad came out to greet me.
"Dad," I said, "there's whiskey bottles strapped to all your trees."
He rolled his eyes and clucked his tongue. "How the hell else would I collect the sap for the maple syrup?" he said.
That was so funny to me.
Dad went on to boil, boil, boil all the sap he collected from his whiskey bottles and make the syrup. Then he died.
Mom gave the closest family members bottles of Dad's syrup for Christmas that year, but I've never been able to bring myself to pour one drop of mine over a stack of hotcakes.
That's what it's like. That's exactly what it's like.
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