But the places there formed scabs and begun to heal. I think he was lucky. He never was the kind of man who could set around for long. The day after he was stung he moped on the porch and didnât say anything when Pa and me went out to finish the molasses. The stings made him weak and the scratch marks on his side made him sore. He didnât complain.
I found Tom was the sort of man that had to be moving toward a goal or he couldnât stand it. I reckon it was the way he felt in control of things. And he wouldnât ever do anything else. He never did go hunting, and he never did drive stobs in the ground and play horseshoes. He liked to eat good, but he never did drink any liquor. Even Pa liked to take a drink from time to time, as I did myself, when it wouldnât hurt anybody.
Like I said, I found out early Tom liked the pleasures of the bed. He liked to sleep when he was tired, and he liked love things too. For somebody that didnât have anything to say he liked loving a lot. I reckon all men do, and most women too, for that matter. I donât have any way to compare him to anybody, but it occurred to me he did his talking through loving. Being with Tom was like taking part in a long conversation that could begin anywhere and might go this way and that, but was always surprising at some point. From what Iâve heard other women say about such things, including Florrie, I believe Tom was special. I believe heput his mind to loving the way he did to other work. Everything he did was careful and right, except for falling in the molasses. He worked his way along and most everything he touched turned out right. I even told Florrie how much I enjoyed Tom, which wasnât like me. And I later wished I never had.
Two weeks after he was burned Tom hitched up the wagon and drove to town to buy a cider mill. It cost him eight dollars, and took him another day to get it set up and oiled and working. Next he cut brush and shoveled the old road up the mountain so he could drive the wagon to the big orchard. It was the first time I could remember that we harvested all the apples. Usually we gathered some in sacks and carried them down the mountain. The rest got left for deer and birds and frost to turn to mush.
Tom went into the grove and picked every single apple. He put the different kinds in separate sacks, and he picked every good apple out of the grass. When he was finished the yellow jackets and birds had only the rotten ones and those half busted.
We wrapped the best apples in newspapers and put them in barrels in the cellar. All together we had more than twenty bushels, and Tom sold some at the village. But the apples he had picked up, those that had been stuck with straw or bruised, we washed for making cider. We worked every evening after he come in from the field, grinding fruit in the mill and squeezing juice out in the press. We sweated in the cool evenings, churning the apples into sweet smelling pieces, then screwing down the press to crush them. I loved to see the juice stream out the cracks of the press. You could smell everyfresh spurt foaming gold and winky. I kept a pine limb to brush away yellow jackets.
Apples donât smell like anything else unless itâs flowers. The white flesh of an apple turning gold when it breaks open smells like the essence of earth. The sap is an extract of all the sun and wind and rain of the summer. Cider already tastes like a kind of liquor, even before it hardens.
To keep the juice sweet Tom sealed the jugs with wax, and we set more than fifty gallons in the cellar. As I bent over, wiping pulp from the press board, my hair come partly undone and stuck to my neck. I had loosened my dress by a couple of buttons and could feel the sweat running between my breasts and under my armpits. I glanced up and saw Tom looking at my breasts. âShame on you,â I said, and slapped his arm. His face was red when he was working, but it turned a little redder.
I found Tom was the sort of man that had to be moving toward a goal or he couldnât stand it. I reckon it was the way he felt in control of things. And he wouldnât ever do anything else. He never did go hunting, and he never did drive stobs in the ground and play horseshoes. He liked to eat good, but he never did drink any liquor. Even Pa liked to take a drink from time to time, as I did myself, when it wouldnât hurt anybody.
Like I said, I found out early Tom liked the pleasures of the bed. He liked to sleep when he was tired, and he liked love things too. For somebody that didnât have anything to say he liked loving a lot. I reckon all men do, and most women too, for that matter. I donât have any way to compare him to anybody, but it occurred to me he did his talking through loving. Being with Tom was like taking part in a long conversation that could begin anywhere and might go this way and that, but was always surprising at some point. From what Iâve heard other women say about such things, including Florrie, I believe Tom was special. I believe heput his mind to loving the way he did to other work. Everything he did was careful and right, except for falling in the molasses. He worked his way along and most everything he touched turned out right. I even told Florrie how much I enjoyed Tom, which wasnât like me. And I later wished I never had.
Two weeks after he was burned Tom hitched up the wagon and drove to town to buy a cider mill. It cost him eight dollars, and took him another day to get it set up and oiled and working. Next he cut brush and shoveled the old road up the mountain so he could drive the wagon to the big orchard. It was the first time I could remember that we harvested all the apples. Usually we gathered some in sacks and carried them down the mountain. The rest got left for deer and birds and frost to turn to mush.
Tom went into the grove and picked every single apple. He put the different kinds in separate sacks, and he picked every good apple out of the grass. When he was finished the yellow jackets and birds had only the rotten ones and those half busted.
We wrapped the best apples in newspapers and put them in barrels in the cellar. All together we had more than twenty bushels, and Tom sold some at the village. But the apples he had picked up, those that had been stuck with straw or bruised, we washed for making cider. We worked every evening after he come in from the field, grinding fruit in the mill and squeezing juice out in the press. We sweated in the cool evenings, churning the apples into sweet smelling pieces, then screwing down the press to crush them. I loved to see the juice stream out the cracks of the press. You could smell everyfresh spurt foaming gold and winky. I kept a pine limb to brush away yellow jackets.
Apples donât smell like anything else unless itâs flowers. The white flesh of an apple turning gold when it breaks open smells like the essence of earth. The sap is an extract of all the sun and wind and rain of the summer. Cider already tastes like a kind of liquor, even before it hardens.
To keep the juice sweet Tom sealed the jugs with wax, and we set more than fifty gallons in the cellar. As I bent over, wiping pulp from the press board, my hair come partly undone and stuck to my neck. I had loosened my dress by a couple of buttons and could feel the sweat running between my breasts and under my armpits. I glanced up and saw Tom looking at my breasts. âShame on you,â I said, and slapped his arm. His face was red when he was working, but it turned a little redder.
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