Apple cider and a new fiddler.

I think junior high B teams are very under-rated. Because we’ve got an athlete on the B team I am happy to report I’ve been in bed before 10pm every single school night. It’s a beautiful thing.

A week and a half ago we spent some time in the hospital with our ball player, trying to figure out if an appendix needed to evacuate or stay put. Several thousand dollars assured us it was fine in its original packaging.
It was as exciting as you can imagine.

Must chop them finer next time. We basically created a Jenga tower of hard apple chunks that could probably support the weight of a Sumo wrestler.

We made apple cider two ways this weekend with family. The first Joe cooked—a warm, mulled cider. The second was of the raw variety. He’d gotten me a cider press for Christmas last year and after 10 months we finally had some fresh apples from Mom’s backyard. The strongest men in the family pressed and pressed and pressed and squeezed out a good quarter cup of juice. It tasted exactly like apple cider.

We walked down along the soybean fields this morning. The air is crisp and the sun is hot, and this is the best combination (no combine-pun intended) for a fall weekend. Our neighbor who plants the fields harvested the first field and left a swath of bare ground through the middle of the second. It is the perfect hayride situation, if we had a tractor and weren’t allergic to hay. Instead we dreamed up a pumpkin catapulting situation. I do have a few rotting gourds and the squash borers would think they’ve really launched into a whole other orbit. Mostly we just toss around a football and burn things in a bonfire. Pop and Logan brought their bass and banjo last night. After we’d pressed the cider till no more press was left in us, we had a quick jam with our newest fiddler.

Brother Jerry (the former pastor and current luthier) called us last week to let us know he finally had a 1/10-size violin in the shop. We rushed over on our way to get Foy his allergy shot. You couldn’t find a more pleased little girl. Jube and Lu both started playing when they were six, so you know she’s had her eye on the prize. (People ask me about FC. We’re still waiting on his fine motor skills to catch up with the rest of his body.)

Brother Luke has taken it upon himself to teach her (Heaven help him). I’ve promised to pay him ten dollars an hour (a steal!). This is how far we’ve come from classical, $40/half hour Suzuki cello training. The thing is, she really does have a good ear. If I come across a more qualified tutor I will take the bait. However, since I’m the music teacher ‘round these parts it seems pretty obvious we won’t be running into the “more qualified” type.

I do think her bow hold may have improved since this picture.

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