Sugarbush Lullaby

I stare at the beads of frost forming on Andre's beard. The four of us shivering seminarians were out chatting with parishioners in the freezing church parking lot. The soft white flurries matched the exterior of the schoolhouse church (Holy Canadian Martyrs Parish, Diocese of Pembroke) where Catherine Doherty (1896-1985, Servant of God) and her husband Ed (1890-1975) once attended and are now buried beside. Born Ekaterina Fyodorovna Kolyschkine to aristocratic Orthodox parents, Catherine completed her schooling in Alexandria, Egypt, was married off to Belgian engineer Boris de Hueck, served as a nurse on the Eastern front, barely survived the Bolshevik revolution, and sought a new life in Canada only to have her marriage break down. She was a brilliant speaker, a Godsend to the poor of Harlem, N.Y. and a mostly absentee mother to her only son, George. Edward Doherty was an accomplished journalist, an Oscar-nominated screenwriter, and a force to be reckoned with in his own right. You can't help but wonder if the baroness ever cracked a sardonic smile at the voluminous amounts of snow in Combermere that would have reminded her of her home in St. Petersburg. Her spirit still pervades the 200 person village of Comberemere in the form of the lay apostolate she founded with Fr. Eddie Doherty. They lived what they preached; a joyful life of poverty and hiddenness in imitation of that little family in Nazareth¹.

We continued to share our collective winter woes. The farmer clad in plaid was patient with my questions,

"Did you guys lose power this past Thursday?"

"Oh, only for a while. Spring storms washed out Perrier. They just put in culverts this past April. Shame."

"It must have been at least 40cm of snow."

"Uh-huh."

"Is it really like this until March? We'd get snow in Toronto but nothing quite like this."

"Well I'll tell you what I know. My gramps told me in his day there would be snow in mid-April up to the horses' chest." He motioned with a horizontal hand somewhere around his nose.

"Dang."

"Uh-huh. Well at least it makes for some good sledding."

I shoved my frozen, swollen fingers in my suit jacket and continued on relating how we flew down Mullen Road on the red pelican sled with the hitch still on and pointing right at our chests. So it goes up in Comberemere, Ontario. Eventually the cold forced even the most loquacious home. Home for us was the farm. A solitary 3 story farmhouse on an 80 acre plot of land. On some days it can feel like being in a solitary cell. That was the point of it I suppose. Catherine – whom her friends called "the B (for baroness)" – would constantly admonish those who would listen to "close the wings of his intellect and to open the door of his heart" in her Russian accent. She had much more to say,

"The poustinia brings you into contact first and foremost with solitude. Secondly, it brings you in contact with God. Even if you don't feel anything at all, the fact remains, that you have come to have a date with God, a very special rendezvous. You have said to the Lord, "Lord, I want to take this 24, 36, 48 hours out of my busy life and I want to come to you because I am very tired. The world is not the way you want it, and neither am I. I want to come and rest on your breast as St John the Beloved. That's why I have come to this place." Or you might say, "Lord, I don't believe in you. I just don't think you exist. I think you are dead: But they tell me that in this strange little cabin in the midst of the woods you might be alive. I want to come in and see. May I?" There are a thousand reasons why a person might come to a retreat like this, but the essence is the folding of that intellect that makes so many towers of Babel and is still doing it and opening the heart that alone can receive the word of God."²

On the farm, our little poustinia was ~300 meters from the main house, a little 3x3 cabin with a well-fitted wood stove, wooden bed, desk and chair. We brought a lamp, a loaf of bread and enough water to last us for 24 hours. The only book we could bring with us was "the good book." There I did my best impression of a Staretz. There the silence would only be punctuated by the birds in the morning and the yips of the coyotes at night. There I felt the presence of the all holy, all powerful still small voice. There I listened and did not speak.

I heard the crunch of his boots on snow long before I heard his voice.

"Ben….Ben….It's 8:15…wake up."

"Yeah I hear you! Thanks Andre." No watches or clocks are present in the Poustinia.

I trudge outside and into the main house for Mass. A Madonna house priest would make his way down to our property to hear confessions afterwards. That afternoon the four of us were led by Fr. Marc into our "sugar bush." The reflection off the settled snow was blinding and we were eager to get moving. We had to clear a path in the knee-deep snow.

"Do any of you guys see any paint on the trees?"

"What, Fr. Marc? Paint?"

"Yeah yeah, I know I spray painted some of these trees last year. The good ones." Fr. Marc said. "Maybe check around the base of the tree. I know there's at least some out here."

There was at least a foot of snow covering the base all the trees.

"Sure thing father." We pause for a moment. "So where do we dig?"

"Let's go this way. It was kind of a circle. That's why I had Nick drive through here last week with his snowmobile."

Clear as mud. Being in a state between half and thoroughly confused was nothing new for us on chore day. "Theirs not to reason why; theirs but to do and die." So we dig. I try to focus on lifting with my legs instead of my back. After a while I was too tired to care. We take a break. Fr. Marc would pause, look around, gesture in another vague direction and we would dig some more. I wipe away some of the snot running down my nose.

"Okay so we need to get to that tree. That tree gives us lots of sap."

"Yes father."

I switch hands to use my lats on my non-sore side and we dig. I'm tempted to silently curse the squirrel that was the cause of this maple that was the cause of more work for us. I think up a sarcastic blessing instead:

"O Lord. Hallelujah, bless this tree. Bless this tree. I'm so going to enjoy shoving 12 taps in you. Let's see how much sap you produce. I've got my eyes on you."

Well I was off by about 8 taps but the Lord certainly blessed that tree. The most taps we put into one tree ended up being 4. Maple syrup is enough of a cottage industry here that the local home hardware would sell taps, buckets, lids, etc. You name it. The taps are conical in shape, made of plastic, and about 2 inches across. One guy goes around with a drill and makes an incision about -10 degree grade. Another follows through with a bag of taps and hammers them in. The last step is to attach the bucket (2 gal.) to the tap with a metal rod that serves as the pin³. The sap flows most freely in the early morning, on the side of the tree where the sun is. We have to collect every 2-3 days. There's no secret to this part of the process. We grab as many of those 5 gallon Canadian tire plastic buckets as we can carry and check each tap one by one. You never quite know how much sap you're going to get as you lift each lid. The more sap, the more maple syrup. It also means performing more farmer's carries to get that sap to our staging point.

"Hey did we get all the buckets?" I shout at the figure of Andre further down the trail.

"I got all mine. Did you remember the buckets by the cutout in the trail back there?" He shouts back.

"Yeah yeah. They're on the sled."

"Okay so give me a hand."

I trudge forwards until we're both at the sled. The two of us pull the sled down to the staging point, about 200 meters from the farm. Fr. David, Fr. Marc were already there with their buckets for the day.

"Where's the truck? You think he got stuck?"

Fr. David shrugs.

I clear a loogie from my throat and take a seat on a bucket.

The "truck⁴" arrives with the back already open. We had a more than our usual amount of sap on this particular day so we had Collin back his truck up just a bit more in the woods. Collin, Andre, Fr. David, Fr. Marc and I start loading our buckets of sap in the back. You could fit 20 if you do it right. I close up the trunk and give her a satisfying slap on the back.

"Alright, give'er!" I shout to Collin.

Collin steps on the gas but instead of going forwards, the car starts rotating to the side like a top.

I hear Collin say "Woahhh…" as he switches gears and tries again. He gives it a little more gas this time but all we hear is the transmission rev up. We sort of laugh as Collin hops out. I get flashbacks to when we had to push Fr. David's Subaru Forester back on road in the forest near the poustinia because Collin bet him his car couldn't make it. It took us a grueling 45 mins with 3 of us pushing and 1 man on the steering wheel tapping the accelerator while jiggling the steering wheel back and forth ever so slightly. Not a chance we could do the same with 100 gallons of sap in the back.

"I think it's stuck on a rock," Andre says.

"Okay. Okay. I'm going to try backing up some more. You tell me when." Collin replies and gets back in the driver's seat.

Fr. Marc retired to the house due to his hip. Fr. David started back as well to start cooking for dinner. I was on for cooking that day so I did the same. It turns out with some words of encouragement and affirmation Collin and Andre were able to un-stuck the truck and get her up the hill. God is good.

"oooOOO clémens, oooOOooo pía, OOoOooo dúlcis Virgo María." We sung as as we concluded our night prayer in the chapel.

A brief moment of silence followed.

Then we nod towards each other and exchange muted "goodnights" before some retire and others stay for a bit longer. I think to myself there's something ethereal about the last line of the Salve Regina. I keep trying to put my finger on it but it eludes me. I stare at the tabernacle and He stares back. I'm lost in thought for a moment.

"I'll be right back in the morning. You know that." I think in my mind.

There's no reply from the tabernacle. I linger for a while longer before retiring for the night.

I eye the approaching pothole warily from the passenger's seat. Fr. David narrowly avoids it and we continue to fly down the dirt road to the Joseph and Samantha's place. See after you collect the sap you've got to boil it in a series of evaporators to concentrate the stuff. The ratio of sap to syrup is about 40:1. We used to boil the stuff ourselves. It was slow and eventually the pan was so caked in soot that we had to get rid of it. For a few years Madonna house helped us out with this step. Then an overzealous health inspector got involved and shut that down quick. The maple syrup industry can be cutthroat. No ifs ands or ehs.

Joseph helps us unload our sap into a holding tank. It gets pumped into one stage of the evaporator. The machine itself is large, for it's about 5x2 meters. The seminarians crowd around as Joseph gives us a tour around the machine. I see the sun lazily making it's way down, but inside the barn the hearth is roaring. We huddle around the evaporator and I took a seat next to Joseph's father-in-law. We exchange the usual pleasantries just as the last barrels were being emptied.

"…and whereabouts is your side of the family from?" I asked.

"Texas. We make the journey up ever so often to visit the kids."

"What sort of trade did you ply back home?"

"Oh I'm retired now but I used to teach mathematics at the naval academy."

"Well shoot. Tell me about that."

One of Joseph's kids cuts into the conversation and offers us both a mug,

I accept the mug. "What's this?"

"Oh just a bit of sap with some whiskey." He gives me a nod and we clink mugs. It tastes like diluted rum and coke, if the coke were flat and much more warm and comforting.

I listen to the Joseph's dad for a while longer before we head back to the farm. Ever hospitable, Samantha gives us some moose meat to take home in freezer bags⁵. We all agree it would taste great if we mixed in bits of bacon to make moose burgers. All of us retire early as it was Sunday tomorrow.

The next day, we returned to the farm after the usual post-mass bustle and hustle. We waste no time in prepping our weekly Sunday brunch. It was all hands on deck. I scramble the eggs and hash, Andre is making pancakes on the griddle, Collin is doing his barista shtick with his hand grinder, Fr. Marc is baking some of his famous bran muffins and Fr. David is busy chopping up some fruit toppings. We settle in our chairs and look at the veritable feast God has placed in front of us. Our mason jar of dark amber maple syrup sat right next to the bright autumn red of the apple juice from our farm. We look around, smile and begin together: "Bless us O Lord and these thy gifts…"

THE END

A future record for all future propaedeutic seminarians at the farm to break. Let it be known the 6 of us – 4 seminarians and 2 priests – of us collected 1178 gallons of sap. After we gave Joseph his cut, we were left with approx ~65 1L jars of Maple Syrup. Fr. Marc was also the one who sanitized the jars and sealed them properly.

I, Ben, am writing this story in the tail end of September 2025. These events transpired in the winter of 2024. I did my best to recall conversations but I did have to paraphrase. When in doubt I erred on the side of generic descriptions. All errors are mine alone.

Yes I still have maple syrup for Sunday brunch to this day.