Copyright 1994(c) 
 
              BABY CHICKS, WILD CIDER AND PINK POPCORN  
                          by Vince Rifici  
  
     When Aunt Florence greeted me at the station she had tears in
her eyes. She hadn't seen me since I was a baby. Her arms felt warm
and gentle around me, just as they had so many years ago. I was 
nine years old and the nation was preparing for war. I didn't know
it then, but I would be with Aunt Florence for one year before 
returning home.  
     When we arrived at the farmhouse the first crop of spring corn
was in full stand. The warm summer winds swept across the 
cornfield, bending each stalk in a rhythmic pattern to and fro like
a chorus of dancers performing a ballet. The heavily flavored air
teased my nostrils with an overtone scent of manure. Aunt Florence
interrupted my magical trance with a beckoning finger. She directed
me to the back of the house where a dilapidated chicken coop leaned
against the wind. With a child-like smile she slowly pushed open
the door.  
     The floor of the coop was covered with hundreds of tiny 
peeping baby chicks. I stood motionless with awe and knew 
immediately I was going to enjoy my stay.  
     The summer days were hot and long and fully occupied with 
working the farm, tending the animals, cutting logs for winter fuel
and making repairs to the fences and outbuildings. An evening dip
in the cool pond was a sheer delight after the long day in the sun.
Summer was a peaceful season on the farm, and the warm summer 
nights would find us sitting around the big open porch of the old
farmhouse. My cousins and I would talk and laugh and tell ghost 
stories and watch for comets in the sky. We would play hide and 
seek and catch frogs in the pond and swim and run in the dark. We
loved the freedom and happiness as only children can.  
     The approach of autumn was noticeable by the shorter days and
cooler evenings. The daily chores were slowly being diverted from
the production of money crop to preparations for the coming winter
season. Firewood and root vegetables were taken in and stored, and
wild apples were picked from the trees and carted off to the cider
mill. I enjoyed picking them because I was allowed to drive the 
team to the mill and watch the process of chopping and pressing the
apples into juice. The inevitable sampling was the sweetest, yet
tangiest nectar that ever touched my tongue. The memory of wild 
cider will never fade from my taste buds.  
     Winter restricted all farm activities to the immediate area
surrounding the house and barn. The frozen earth repelled the 
intrusion of man-made implements, and the farm animals would be 
confined to the barnyard for the entire winter season. Corn silage
became the main diet for the pastureless cows. The natural alcohol
in silage had quite an inebriating effect on the livestock. Our 
bull Jesse, who was untouchable in the spring, became as tame and
as playful as a puppy. I would hug his neck and ride him around the
barnyard in the snow. One big lick from his giant pink tongue would
start me screaming with indignation, fearful that my face would be
glued shut forever!  His huge brown eyes and silky half-closed 
eyelids portrayed the epitome of docility. Springtime would  
change him into a snorting temperamental virile beast, fully 
restored to his true magnificent nature.  
     Springtime revealed many wondrous happenings around the farm.
The animals brought forth their babies, and the melting snow 
uncovered the brown thatch of winter grass, soon to be sliced by
the tempered steel discs of the plow. The warm swelling push of 
humid southerly air engaged the cold Canadian air masses and ended
the month long battle with sweet, well filling, earth softening 
rain. Slender shoots of May wheat poked their delicate shafts above
the ground and transformed the freshly cut meadow into a downy sea
of yellowish-green splendor. Sap welled up in the hibernating apple
trees and burst open the red and white blossoms, promising another
store of sweet nectar in the fall. The entire orchard took on the
appearance of a king-sized bowl of pink popcorn!  
     When I left the farm it was with a saddened heart. I took home
with me the treasured memory of the simple, pure and unpretentious
way of life of the Pennsylvania dirt farmer. On the train I opened
my suitcase and dug out the second best treasure from Aunt 
Florence's farm - an old Sir Walter Raleigh tobacco tin filled with
the fading blossoms from the wild apple tree.  
                               END