Autumnal Musings

The honor of first piece goes to a talented young sophomore--Mira Davis--who has submitted a poem (and picture) of autumn that manages to be both beautiful and clever. We're now on the tail end of a spectacular foliage season, and we can't think of a better way to inaugurate The Scop.

The once green hilltop’s trees
Begin to blush, with anticipation
No less, at the thought of their
Naked, wintry figures.
Of their own design
Or not,
They will not say,
But they turn nevertheless.

Then, once painted,
From leaf to stem,
They drop
Their leaves in horror
Of what has become
Of their beautiful green.


Continuing in the autumnal vein...

Our second post is a personal essay by senior Erin Grout using a rhetorical mode known as "process analysis." Here, Erin not only describes a yearly tradition in rich, evocative terms but uses it to explore her relationships with those closest to her. A brief but complex work of prose with some wonderful echoes of Keats's ode "To Autumn."

An Initiation

Every autumn, when I was young, my family made apple cider. We hauled out the old wood cider press from the cellar and hosed it down. We picked the apples from the orchard out back, hauled them back to the house in the old Gardenway cart, and let them soak in several buckets. Small bitter red ones, big juicy yellows, and sweet green all mixed together. The apples didn’t have to be perfect–most were picked right off the ground where they had fallen, sometimes bruised and mushy. Variety is always the key.

After the apples were all picked and the press rid of dirt and cobwebs, the real process began. First, we ground the apples, watching as the chewed up pulp fell into the barrel lined with the special burlap sack. My sisters and I would take turns turning the crank, but our arms tired quickly and Mom and Dad were left with the real work. Back then we mostly watched or helped load the apples into the hopper.

Next, the lid was put on the barrel and the large screw spun down onto the lid. As the resistance increased, the mashed up apples began to release their juice. As a kid this was the best part, because the more you turned the screw, the more juice would pour from the tray into our waiting sauce pot. I can remember crouching down in front of the steady trickle of cider and sticking my finger in to get a taste.

Over time it has become harder for the family to make cider. In the fall we are competing in or coaching sports, and school keeps us all busy. For a few years my sister Leah and I took charge and made cider, sometimes enlisting the help of a few friends.

Now Leah is in college and isn’t home come cider-making time, so the tradition has fallen to me. Actually it’s more like I picked up the tradition. It’s hard to say why, but I don’t want to see the cider making end. Last year I was the one who set aside some time to pull out the press and hose it down. I’ve learned the ins and outs of the whole process; how to get all the pieces of the press to fit together, how to fix a snag, and how to keep things moving so the only ‘down time’ is when we stop for cookies. And yes, I still enjoy sticking my finger into the first flow of juice for a taste test.

Making cider is continuing a tradition and a way to celebrate my birthday, but more than that it’s an initiation into fall. What better way to enter the season than working outside in the cool breeze and changing leaves, while the bees swarm around, and the fresh cider makes my face and hands sticky.