Fall is a marvelous time at Apsley
Acers. You might have gleened by the odd words like "acers" Latin for Maple
and "Maple Syrup" that a fair number of sugar maples grow on our
property. They are scattered throughout the forest; most of the rocky ridges
are almost pure maple. The hill just west of the house is also;
it is here where the collection of sap for our Maple Syrup takes place.
The leaves are raked late in the fall from the lawn areas; these go to
our large compost pile; which in turn makes rich humus for our gardens.
This same hill west of the house supplies the water for our well.
The old original hand dug well is still being used.. It has a constant
flow of clear, pure, soft water. Even in the drought years, we use what
we wish and have never run dry. It is fortunate that this hill is entirely
on our property, far away from the road and pollution, we will never have
to worry about contamination of our water.
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Each fall an invitation is sent out to all
our family and friends to come up to Apsley Acers for the Thanksgiving
long weekend. Upwards of 40+ guests have joined us for a sit down full
course meal in the log cabin area of our home. This marvelous room is 20
x 40' ; we set up large 4 x 8' trestle tables, which along with all the
chairs and several benches Tom has made; everyone sits with lots of room.
Everyone pitches in both with help and food for the weekend. Tom sets up
the 12 x 14' prospector tent for the over flow of guests from the loft
and the young children to play in case we have rain. So far Mother Nature
has blessed us with perfect weather, so need it or not it goes up more
as a good luck weather charm than anything. The loft is at the top of the
new addition; it is 30 x 30' and has plenty of room. There are several
sofa beds, mattresses, foamies, even a cot for wee ones. It is on a first
come first serve basis. Our guests spend the weekend walking the many trails
in the forest, playing soccer, badminton and croquet, socializing and enjoying
the fresh air along with the beautiful scenery. One afternoon is always
set aside to carve pumpkins with the young people. Everyone eagerly awaits
the dark, for they know soon Tom will be lighting the huge bonfire, and
if Uncle Henry and his friends come up. (He plays in a Celtic band
on weekends) . . the toes will soon be tapping, and voices singing to all
the jigs, reels and campfire songs we all learnt when we were younger.
The children enjoy making "Smores"; (see receipe page) and lighting giant
sparklers. The stars look almost close enough to pick, and the telescope
is set up for a real close look. Of course we try to keep the ghost stories
not too scary..at least until the very young are in bed.
It is definately a memory making weekend each
year!
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The Solitary Woodsman
by: Sir Charles G.D. Roberts
When the grey lake-water rushes
Past the dripping alder-bushes,
And the bodeful autumn wind
In the fir-tree weeps and hushes,
When the air is sharply damp
Round the solitary camp,
And the moose-bush in the thicket
Glimmers like a scarlet lamp,
When the birches twinkle yellow,
And the cornel bunches mellow,
And the owl across the twilight
Trumpets to his downy fellow,
When the nut-fed chipmunks romp
Through the maple's crimson pomp,
And the slim viburnum flushes
In the darkness of the swamp,
When the blueberries are dead,
When the rowan clusters red,
And the shy bear, summer-sleekened,
In the bracken makes his bed,
On a day there comes once more
To the latched and lonely door,
Down the wood-road striding silent,
One who has been here before.
Green spruce branches for his head,
Here he makes his simple bed,
Crouching with the sun, and rising
When the dawn is frosty red.
All day he wanders wide
With the grey moss for his guide,
And his lonely axe-stroke startles
The expectant forest-side.
Toward the quiet close of day
Back to camp he takes his way
And about his sober footsteps
Unafraid the squirrels play.
On his roof the red leaf falls,
At his door the bluejay calls,
And he hears the wood-mice hurry
Up and down his rough log walls;
Hears the laughter of the loon
Thrill the dying afternoon,
Hears the calling of the moose
Echo to the early moon.
And he hears the partridge drumming,
The belated hornet humming,
All the faint, prophetic sounds
That foretell the winter's coming.
And the wind about his eaves
Through the chilly night-wet grieves,
And the earth's dumb patience fills him,
Fellow to the falling leaves.
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