Reflections by Doc Arnett

I’m not sure what it is that so draws me to making apple cider. I do know that as far back as I can remember, the process of grinding up apples and pressing out the juice fascinates me. Maybe it’s the family connection; maybe it’s the mechanical marvel of it. Might also have something to do with the association with glorious autumn days, the emerging change of seasons. It’s also not outside the realm of possibility that the anchoring in my early years of growing up in West Kentucky might be some influence. Perhaps it even includes the sheer wonder of flavor and the delight of crisp, clean, sweetness with a touch of tartness on the palate. I’m pretty sure it’s all of that and a couple more aspects as well.

As to the family connection, my earliest memory of using the old, hand-cranked mill goes back over sixty years and involves my next older brother, Paul. The mill itself is a compact wonder of design, simplicity, and efficiency. Using only human energy leveraged by mechanical advantage, it grinds apples into small bits and pieces and then presses out juice from those pieces.

After Paul left home to seek life in other places, Dad and I would sometimes make cider together. In particular, during my college years, I remember us making cider in Kelvie Nicholson’s small orchard in Graves County and then fishing together in his bass pond. Whether it was Paul and me, or Dad and me, or me and whoever, honey bees, yellow jackets, wasps, dirt-daubers and butterflies swarmed around the pile of pummies (pulp left over after the pressing out the juice), prowled around the slats, crawled around the rim of the pan and occasionally fell into the swirling flow of the juice as it ran from the collector pan into the plastic or metal pan set on the ground to catch the juice.

It’s probably the sight of that juice running out from between the spaced slats of the basket and out of the collector pan into the dishpan that most fascinates me. What was a bunch of apples just a couple of minutes earlier is transformed into a stream of richly flavorful and delightfully sweet juice. In spite of the bruises and bug bites, defects and deficiencies that keep every apple from being perfect, all surrender and contribute to the cider. All individual identity is lost but a glorious new quality and nature is attained. Not fit to be compared with spiritual transformation but nonetheless remarkable and delightful.

So, yeah, there’s all of that: background, familial and regional identity, metaphysical spiritual lessons, connection to a bygone era. Maybe that last part’s a strong bit of the draw for me. Days when families and neighbors worked together and shared nature’s bounty through hard labor and pleasant fellowship. And, increasingly as the years have passed, I’ve felt a sense of identity and distinction whenever I make cider using a hand-cranked mill. I don’t think there’s a lot of folks left that do that anymore. The fact that it’s a bit of inherited skill and tradition doesn’t hurt anything.

I savor those skills and traditions every time I bend my back into the cranking, grind up apples, turn the press and watch that rich nectar pouring out of the wooden pan. Over the years, I’ve made cider with old men (and women) and young children, some of them my children and grandchildren. I’ve washed up apples and cranked out cider with longtime friends, neighbors, and fellow church members. This year, in separate sessions, I’ve made cider with a friend I’ve had for nearly twenty years, with a daughter-in-law and her mother, with a close spiritual brother, and with my wife. Lord willing, in this next week I’ll make some more with some more of my grandkids, a couple of cousins, and some really close friends.

And, each time, whether working with family or friends, I make new memories that add to the rich, delectable blend of history and association. Memories that become part of who I am. Memories that become attached somehow to the process and the parts of this old hand-cranked mill.

The cider’s not bad, either.