The fire is burning hot in our backyard pit on Saturday morning by the time I hear Derek and his mom pull into our driveway in their Subaru Outback. I peer around the house and see Derek open the passenger door and jump out before his mom even puts the car in park.
“Maple Day!” he screams and runs out to the yard with his purple mitten up the whole way, ready for a high five.
His mom follows behind him, walking carefully through the snow in her big boots. She looks just like the adult version of Derek—short, twig skinny, all bony elbows and knees, and off balance.
“Welcome!” Grandpa calls and walks over to help Derek’s mom through the melting snow.
Yesterday in the garage Grandpa and I did two car inspections, three oil changes, and put new tires on a Toyota Prius. All without Harold. And Grandpa talked with customers and didn’t get his words crossed either.
“Glad you could make it,” he tells Derek’s mom.
“Are you kidding? There’s no way we’d miss an invitation to boil sap,” she says. “Derek talks about this all year.”
Today is going to be another good day just like yesterday.
The flames from the fire pit are burning high up over the brick walls that are sunk into the ground. I know that high flames mean it’s time for another couple pieces of dry, split wood from our pile.
“Come on.” I pull Derek toward the shed. “Let’s get your gloves.” Derek and his mom have boiled with us for so many years that we keep a pair of gloves for both of them in the shed.
Derek’s mom pulls on her work gloves and sits down on the stump chopping block. She helps sometimes, but mostly she likes to watch and take pictures of Derek and me.
“More wood,” I order, and Derek and I race to the woodpile. I hold my arms out palms up while he stacks two pieces on my forearms to carry back to the fire.
Derek’s always too scared to throw another piece of wood on the fire, so that’s my job every time. Grandpa pokes at the burning wood in the pit and says, “OK, Robbie.” That’s my cue that I can throw the next piece on and step back fast because the sparks fly up and you don’t want them to catch your clothes.
Grandpa’s bringing over the metal bars that stretch across the fire and the big lobster pot we’ll use to boil. His brain is hardwired for boiling, so he’s remembering all the steps, and his memory doesn’t seem tired at all, which is good because there’s no reason for Derek’s mom to raise her eyebrows.
Grandpa puts the lobster pot on the metal bars and the fire starts to heat up the bottom. Then he lets Derek pour the sap from our gallon jugs into the pot until it’s three-quarters of the way full.
“Now we wait,” Derek says.
Grandpa nods. “Until the staff boils down to half.”
And I know he means sap. I look quick at Derek and his mom to see if they noticed, and I don’t think they did, but I can’t tell.
“Then I get to add more sap. Right, Mr. Hart?” Derek asks.
Grandpa nods again and stirs the sap with the big slotted spoon we brought out from the kitchen.
Derek wants to make a snowman while the sap’s boiling, but the whole time we’re rolling the snow across the yard I’m watching Grandpa as he sits next to Derek’s mom on the stump chopping block. I wonder what they’re talking about or if they’re talking at all and if Grandpa’s words are staying straight, so I keep pushing the snow toward them to see if I can spy in.
“Beautiful day.” I can hear Derek’s mom’s voice. “Perfect for boiling, isn’t it?” she asks. “Derek always starts getting excited when it’s cold at night and warms up during the day. Nothing he loves more than Maple Day.” Grandpa nods.
“That’s right,” I cut in. “Grandpa taught me to recognize perfect sap-running weather when I was little.” I stand up from the big snowball we’re pushing around for the base of our snowman. “And I taught Derek.”
Grandpa slides his work gloves off his hands, lays them on the ground by the stump, and says, “I bet we’ll get a few more . . .” Then he looks like he looked the night he wandered off, except this time it’s his sentence that wanders off and he can’t follow it.
“. . . A few more boiling days before the end of the season,” I finish for him.
Derek’s mom smiles. “Well, that’s great! Your syrup is the best in all of Vermont, Charlie.” And that’s true. And that’s saying something.
Derek points to the corner of the yard. “Let’s set up our snowman over there.”
We push our big snowball across the yard, collecting more and more snow as we roll, and it gets big fast, so by the time we get it over to the corner of the yard it’s up past my knees. But it’s also far from the stump chopping block, where Grandpa’s forgetting the ends of his sentences, and I can’t make a snowman and spy in on him at the same time.
Derek’s asking me about how deep into the woods the hiker’s shelter on the Appalachian Trail is from here and saying maybe he’ll go with us one day this summer. I want to tell him it’s only a mile, though he’d still never make it, but I’m trying to listen to Grandpa from across the yard.
Then I hear Derek’s mom squeal. “Oooooo!”
When I look over, the pot is bubbling over and making hissing sounds. Grandpa stands up quick and Derek and I run over fast. I can tell by the look on Grandpa’s face that he forgets this step, he forgets what to do if it boils over.
Even Derek’s mom remembers. “Did you bring out the vegetable oil?” and she’s running to the kitchen in her big boots, all slow and off balance while Grandpa is frozen to his spot.
“Lift it off,” I tell him. “Lift off the pot, Grandpa.”
And before I know it he’s reaching for the big metal handles on the pot except his gloves are still in the snow next to the stump and I try to shout, “Wait!” in time but I don’t because Grandpa’s yells are filling the cold air and the pot is overturned and spilling sap into the snow.
Derek is screaming now too.
And Grandpa’s shaking his hands and tears are streaming down his face and getting all caught up in his deep grooves.
“Oh my God, Mr. Hart! Mom! Mom!” Derek yells.
She hasn’t even gotten to the front door yet and now she’s running back and yelling. “What happened?”
I hold Grandpa’s elbow and tell him to sit in the snow and he kneels down slow and then sits crisscross applesauce like we learned in pre-K. I make a snowball and tell him to hold it. And I keep saying I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, because if I hadn’t told him to lift the pot, then his hands wouldn’t be screaming red and he wouldn’t have to cry in front of Derek and Derek’s mom and if I had remembered the vegetable oil in the first place I would have added a few drops in the foam and it would have simmered down like Grandpa taught me when I was a little kid and if I hadn’t been so far away making a stupid snowman in the corner of the yard, then none of this would have happened.
Derek’s mom tries to look at Grandpa’s hands, but he pulls them away.
“It’s nothing,” he mumbles. “Just a stupid mistake.”
His brain is supposed to be hardwired for this. Hardwired for boiling sap into maple syrup, hardwired for all the steps and details.
I hand him another snowball and he holds it between his hands. I can tell they’re stinging bad, because he squeezes his eyes closed tight as the snowball melts.
“Charlie,” Derek’s mom insists, “let me see.” And she reaches out again for his hands. She uncurls his fingers and looks at his palms.
“I’m really fine. It’s nothing.” He wipes his cheeks with the sleeve of his red flannel shirt.
“It looks like a first-degree burn,” she says. “Let’s go inside and treat this before it gets worse.”
Derek is kind of crying and he’s sniffling and wiping the snot off his nose with his work gloves. That’s what happens when Derek gets scared. He starts crying and doesn’t know what to do. That’s why I play third base and he stands behind me.
“I saved some of the sap.” He sniffles. The pot is right side up again in the snow, and the fire is still burning hot flames from the brick pit.
“Good job, Derek,” I say because I don’t want to ruin his day too. That makes him smile, which makes things feel a little more OK. But not really.
We’re following his mom and Grandpa inside when I remember that we’re not supposed to leave the fire blazing if we’re not outside to watch it. I don’t want to put it out because it’ll take too long to start it all over again and that means that Maple Day is ruined for good. But I don’t want to stay outside with it while Grandpa’s inside with his stinging hands and Derek’s mom’s asking him questions. So I take a shovel of sand from the bucket in the shed and carry it out to the yard and dump it on the flames until they die out.
When I get inside Derek’s mom is holding a cold cloth on Grandpa’s hands. Then she rubs some lotion on his palms and tells him he might want to take some Advil for the swelling. Derek’s dad is a doctor. I wonder if that’s how she knows all this stuff. Or maybe it’s just that she’s a mom, and moms know stuff.
“Thank you,” Grandpa says. “And Derek, don’t you worry. Melted day will . . .”
And I know he means maple, and his face looks lost again.
“Maple Day will happen again soon. Maybe next weekend.” I look at Derek and his mom. “We’ll collect more sap to boil by then anyway.”
“Wouldn’t miss it!” Derek says. “I’m sorry about your hands, Mr. Hart.”
I walk them to the door, and Derek’s mom says she’ll call to check on us tomorrow. “And please call me for anything.” Then she’s taking a long look at Grandpa. “Let me write my number down just in case,” she says, and I know she’s worried because she’s raising her eyebrows and wrinkling up her forehead and her eyes look really sad. “Make sure he keeps those hands moisturized. Call if you see any blisters that are bigger than your pinkie fingernail.”
Derek’s mom pats my shoulder, and before I know it my eyes are getting all burny and I have to blink really fast and look up at the ceiling so I don’t cry like some baby.
“You’re taking good care of him, Robbie.”
I shake my head like that’s not true because it’s not. “He takes care of me.”