By Harvey Frauenglas, Visit Amazon's Harvey Frauenglass Page, search results, Learn about Author Central, Harvey Frauenglass,
In Cidermaster of Rio Oscuro, an orchard in northern New Mexico is the surroundings for fourteen seasons of development and harvest and for Harvey Frauenglass, the present steward of this orchard, to meditate at the ordinary cycles of lifestyles and dying. Frauenglass involves detect, this shamble of estate bargains one of those salvation. The decrepit farmhouse and its outbuildings, the bushes and their infirmities, and the querulous centuries-old acequia that funnels water from the Rio Oscuro to the farm include histories of care and wish, of grief and loss. tales of devotion and love might be came across her, too: the tale of a lonely Catholic priest, Father Freidrich Meyers, the former cidermaster of the farm; the tale of associates who proportion their collective knowledge and paintings selflessly besides Frauenglass and his spouse; the tale of Marni, Frauenglass's daughter, scuffling with breast melanoma at the same time she contains in her afflicted physique her unborn son Trevor. Cidermaster of Rio Oscuro deals a imaginative and prescient of an easier existence the place a venerable orchard turns into a spot to place down roots and locate wish and expectation within the harvest. this can be radiant first e-book concerning the ways that a guy is gentled via a growing to be connection to the earth, to her end result, and to the order of the seasons.
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I smile. The effort has no logic. Another few apples in the box will hardly swell the flow of juice from the cider press. And who will care whether these are picked or not? I do not think the tree cares. And who if not the tree? No one in the orchard watches me. I climb to the very top of the twelve-foot, three-legged picking The First Cider ladder, two steps higher than the last safe step, and I reach out. Balanced as if on a wire over the river, balanced as only one who has fallen will balance, now one-footed I grasp the apple and its neighbor and the neighbor’s neighbor and bring them back, into the bag.
I would leave Rick to handle the cleanup, and I’d get up at five the next morning to go to market. By the time I would get home he would have already been picking for several hours. We picked our orchard, and we picked many other unsprayed orchards all the way to the Tesuque Valley, almost to Santa Fe. The last apples we harvested in the snow, in November, in La Bolsa, a little orchard by the Rio Grande. And everything we pressed had to be sold immediately. In that season we had cider in three stores in Santa Fe, one in Los Alamos, and three in Taos.
At the end of the season I added everything up; in this, our first full year of pressing, we had made and sold two thousand gallons of cider. The next year I laid a slab of cement across the front half of the shed. We had plenty of apples, so Rick took off the fall semester to help press. We pushed each other—to find more apples, to press more cider, to find more customers. And we bested our first year by two hundred gallons. Come November we were both exhausted. It was our last season making cider together, and that record for gallons pressed and sold still stands.