Speaker 1: Us studios to to have some cloat. Every October, when
Speaker 1: the air turns sharp and the maples along the Moreno
Speaker 1: family's fence line blaze with color, the old cider press
Speaker 1: comes out of the barn. It has been there since
Speaker 1: Able Moreno's great grandfather built it from oak and iron,
Speaker 1: and it has pressed apples every autumn for longer than
Speaker 1: anyone in town can remember. The press is a simple thing, really,
Speaker 1: a wooden frame, a heavy screw, a wide, shallow trough.
Speaker 1: It looks like it belongs in a museum, and maybe
Speaker 1: it does. But the Moranos have never been the kind
Speaker 1: of family to put useful things behind glass. They believe
Speaker 1: in using what works, and this press, despite its age
Speaker 1: and its creaks and its slightly lop sided handle, works beautifully.
Speaker 1: Abel is the one who brings it out. He is
Speaker 1: fifty two, with his father's broad shoulders and his mother's
Speaker 1: patient eyes. He rolls the press from the barn to
Speaker 1: the front yard on a hand truck, moving slowly, not
Speaker 1: because the press is heavy, but because he likes the
Speaker 1: ritual of it. He likes the way the morning sounds
Speaker 1: when the first frost is still melting on the grass.
Speaker 1: He likes the smell of the barn, hay and old wood,
Speaker 1: and the whisper of a thousand autumns. He sets the
Speaker 1: press in the center of the yard, next to a
Speaker 1: long table covered with burlap. On the table are baskets
Speaker 1: of apples, some from the Moreno orchard and some brought
Speaker 1: by neighbors. There are courtlands and maccowns, and a few
Speaker 1: old varieties whose names have been lost, but whose taste
Speaker 1: is sharp and sweet and exactly right for cider. By
Speaker 1: mid morning, people begin to arrive. The Moreno Cider Day
Speaker 1: is not an event that is formally announced. No one
Speaker 1: sends invitations or post signs. People simply know the way.
Speaker 1: They know when the first snow is coming, or when
Speaker 1: the peaches at the farm stand are ripe. They bring
Speaker 1: their own apples and their own jugs, and sometimes their
Speaker 1: own children, who are set loose in the orchard to
Speaker 1: chase each other through the rows of trees. The first
Speaker 1: to arrive is always mister Huang, who lives two houses
Speaker 1: down and has been coming since before Abel was born.
Speaker 1: He brings a crate of small tart apples from his
Speaker 1: own backyard tree, a variety he planted decades ago from
Speaker 1: a seed he carried in his pocket it from a
Speaker 1: market in Taipei. He does not say much. He sets
Speaker 1: down his crate, nods at Abel, and takes his place
Speaker 1: at the press. Next come the Garcias, a family of
Speaker 1: four who moved to the street only three years ago,
Speaker 1: but have already been absorbed into the tradition as if
Speaker 1: they had always been there. The father, Luis helps Abel
Speaker 1: load apples into the press. The mother, Carmen, brings tomales
Speaker 1: wrapped in foil. The children, Sophia and Matteo, are given
Speaker 1: the job of turning the crank on the apple grinder,
Speaker 1: a task they perform with tremendous seriousness and occasional squeals
Speaker 1: when a particularly large apple jams the mechanism. Throughout the morning,
Speaker 1: more neighbors arrive, the Petersens from across the road, Missus Okeefor,
Speaker 1: who always brings a thermos of ginger tea and shares
Speaker 1: it with whoever looks cold. Old mister Callahan, who is
Speaker 1: ninety one and walks with a cane, but insists on
Speaker 1: taking a turn at the press handle, pushing down with
Speaker 1: both hands while his face reddens with effort and satisfaction.
Speaker 1: The process is slow and deliberate apples are fed into
Speaker 1: the grinder, a hand cranked device that reduces them to
Speaker 1: a rough pulp. The pulp is layered into the press
Speaker 1: with cloth, and then the screw is turned slowly, steadily
Speaker 1: until the juice begins to flow. It runs in a
Speaker 1: golden stream into the trough below, and from there into
Speaker 1: waiting jugs and pitchers and cups. The first cup is
Speaker 1: always tasted in silence. Abel pours and passes it to
Speaker 1: mister Huang, who takes a sip, closes his eyes and nods.
Speaker 1: That is the signal is good. The season has begun.
Speaker 1: After that, the cups flow freely. People stand around the
Speaker 1: press and drink and talk and watch the juice run.
Speaker 1: The conversation is unhurried, the way it always is when
Speaker 1: people are gathered around something real and simple and good.
Speaker 1: They talk about the weather, about the frost that came
Speaker 1: early this year, about the hawk that has been circling
Speaker 1: the orchard for a week. They talk about the old
Speaker 1: days too. Mister Callahan tells a story about the winter
Speaker 1: of sixty eight, when the snow was so deep that
Speaker 1: the press had to be dug out of the barn.
Speaker 1: Missus Okafort tells about the harvest festivals in her village
Speaker 1: in Nigeria, where the whole town would gather to pound
Speaker 1: yams and dance until dawn. Luis talks about the orchards
Speaker 1: in Mexico where his grandfather grew up, and how the
Speaker 1: fruit there tasted different sweeter somehow, though he cannot explain
Speaker 1: why the children run between the adults, their hands sticky
Speaker 1: with juice, their faces flushed with cold and excitement. Sophia
Speaker 1: has appointed herself the official taster and announces her vernict
Speaker 1: on each batch with the gravity of a judge. Matteo
Speaker 1: has discovered that if he stands very close to the press,
Speaker 1: the spray of juice makes freckles on his arms, and
Speaker 1: he shows them to everyone who will look. By early afternoon,
Speaker 1: the sun is high and warm, and the baskets are
Speaker 1: nearly empty. The last of the apples are pressed, and
Speaker 1: the final jug is filled and sealed with a cork
Speaker 1: that Abel carved himself. The press is wiped down with
Speaker 1: a damp cloth and Abel begins the slow process of
Speaker 1: rolling it back to the barn. But no one leaves.
Speaker 1: That is the thing about Moreno's cider day. The pressing
Speaker 1: is only half of it. The other half is the sitting.
Speaker 1: People settle into lawn chairs and blankets spread on the grass.
Speaker 1: Carmens to Molly's are unwrapped and shared. Someone produces a
Speaker 1: guitar and plays softly songs that everyone knows the words too.
Speaker 1: The children, finally tired, curl up on blankets with their
Speaker 1: heads in their mother's laps. Abel sits on the porch
Speaker 1: steps with a cup of cider in his hands. He
Speaker 1: watches the light change as the afternoon deepens, the shadows
Speaker 1: lengthening across the yard, the leaves drifting down in slow spirals.
Speaker 1: He thinks about his great grandfather, who built the press
Speaker 1: with no tools but a handsaw and a hammer. He
Speaker 1: thinks about his father, who taught him how to turn
Speaker 1: the screw without stripping the thread. He thinks about his
Speaker 1: own children, now grown and living in cities far away,
Speaker 1: who come home every October without being asked. He takes
Speaker 1: a sip of cider. It is cold and sweet and
Speaker 1: faintly tart, the way it always is, the way it
Speaker 1: has been every year of his life. The taste is
Speaker 1: the taste of autumn itself, of mornings like this, one
Speaker 1: of people gathered around something old and good and still working.
Speaker 1: The sun begins to set the air cools. One by one.
Speaker 1: The neighbors gather their jugs, and their children and their blankets.
Speaker 1: There are hugs and hand shakes, and promises to do
Speaker 1: it again next year, the same promises that have been
Speaker 1: made and kept every October for as long as any
Speaker 1: one can remember. Abel watches them go. He stands alone
Speaker 1: in the yard, the empty press beside him, the last
Speaker 1: of the cider in his cup. The orchard is quiet now,
Speaker 1: The trees stand in their rows, patient and bare, already
Speaker 1: thinking about next year's blossoms. He finishes his cider, carries
Speaker 1: the cup inside, and washes it in the sink. Through
Speaker 1: the kitchen window he can see the barn where the
Speaker 1: press will sleep through winter, waiting for the next October,
Speaker 1: the next gathering, the next golden stream of juice. He
Speaker 1: turns off the light and stands for a moment in
Speaker 1: the dark kitchen, listening to the house settle around him,
Speaker 1: the old wood creaking, the wind moving through the orchard.
Speaker 1: It sounds, he thinks, like breathing, Like the whole world
Speaker 1: is breathing, slow and steady, getting ready to sleep. He
Speaker 1: smiles and heads to bed, carrying the taste of cider
Speaker 1: and the warmth of the day with him, a sweetness
Speaker 1: that will last until morning.