Burning Leaves
A/N: The words in italics come from another challenge I combined with this one. I comes from a writing group I belong to.
We have a gloriously warm day and a date with a burning barrel or perhaps just a match. I think the barrel is a better idea. My home is deep in the maple forests of north western Vermont. Sugar maple country, and since we produce it within a strict set of organic rules.
Each step of the process clearly written on a placard on the boiling room wall, comes from long experience of a century long business. There could be no confusionor question about how we make our world famous syrup. It would cost us a fortune if the media did a story maligning the quality of our products.
The narrow stream beside the building enclosing the giant kettles, ran through a waterwheel on the opposite side. Grinding flour from milo, wheat, oats and other specialty grains is the other side of our business. It was a milestone of mass funding from people willing to donate to help us a sustainable powersource.
Soaring spruce trees with huge roots creating trip hazards stood in a tight row behind the mill house. Someone mentioned water was the wrong way to go, thinking wind had better potential. Not so, the steep section of our brook, almost a waterfall, never freezes over. Not even on record cold days. The steam from it obscures the entire production section of the homestead. The only mistake was the need to divert water when the waterwheel ends up under a ton of ice.
Not that it matters. We are finsihed our grinding for this year. Limited product in niche market allows for increased profits in any case.
I hoped I could get the piles of leaves dealt with before the first late fall rains hit. Wet debris like this was a slip hazard. If I went down hard, being lazywas my only option. Which might not be a problem. Spreading a blanket close to our chalet style home, my husband was the only other resident here.
Our employees were on vacation as was tradition.
“The leaves can wait. Oscar and Hilda will be back in two days. We’ll make an event of it. The weather will hold, we’ve got a solid omega block.” He held out the book I was reading and gestured toward the picnic basket. Pointing to the rills broken into lace like patterns between polished river rock, he continued, “Our wine is staying cold in the eddy there, and you need to relax.”
I stepped into his arms, “We’re all alone, for once. Burning them is always a chore better shared. Your weather predictions are never wrong.”
His lips were soft on mine. When I caught my breath, he said, “Let’s see what other fires I can light.”