People from away probably can’t appreciate the extent of it, but there’s a richness of rituals here in northern New England that’s tied to the calendar. Unlike the more formal rituals of church, which are announced and preceded by processing choirs, these usually begin with a phone call.

November: “We’re gonna be in camp this weekend. You comin’ over? If you do, bring some McKenzie’s sausage. And maybe some of that Vermont designer beer.” January: “It’s supposed to snow tonight. You want to try Craftsbury tomorrow?” February: “We’re gonna fish Lake Fairlee Saturday. You in?” May: “The ice is out of Woodbury Pond. You got your guide boat painted yet?” July: “The Mountaineers are playing tomorrow night. Wanna go?” September: “If it doesn’t rain tomorrow, we’re splitting. You come help stack, I’ll bring the splitter down to your place next week and we’ll get that puny woodpile of yours put away.”

It’s a regular galaxy, a smörgåsbord of delightful choices uniquely northern, each invitation tinged with irony and mild abuse around the edges. Each, as well, marking the passage of the seasons; and although, because of diminished capacity, they may not be the pure joy they once were, they’re all the more precious because far fewer lie ahead than stretch behind. So, if at all possible, I try, as the poet Horace advises, to carp the diems, lest there be no tomorrows.

Bob and I go pretty far back. We graduated together from secondary school in 1953, and then lost track of each other for four decades. He was career Army. We met again at our fortieth reunion, and somehow hit it off. Since then we’ve paddled Arctic rivers together and kept in pretty close touch. Since Mother and I have moved to Vermont, Bob and I are only an hour apart. When he called on a sunny St. Patrick Day morning to announce the firing of the arch, I was out of here.

Sugaring, like haying, is largely dependent on the weather. Like haying, it happens every year, but how well it happens is a matter of fortune. A load of dry hay heading for cover and a cloud of steam half-hiding the roof vent of a sugar house are both reasons for rejoicing. There’s little self-congratulation for success, no matter how we’ve improved the odds with technology; rather, a sigh of relief if the capricious weather gods have smiled upon us once again.

When Mother and I were first married, I used to sugar over a concrete-block fireplace I built in the yard. It wasn’t anything but a hobby sort of thing; I don’t think I ever made a gallon. But the kids seemed to enjoy standing around the fire in the brisk spring air. And what little syrup we made, even if it looked like weak coffee, still tasted to us like Grade A Fancy.

For a couple of years in the sixties, when I was teaching school, a benevolent elderly local businessman lent me his sugar bush and shack, along with all the equipment. Everything was by hand – drilling, hauling, pouring into the tank, sawing, and splitting. We could drive right to the sugarhouse door in our little black Beetle, as could the rest of the faculty. So we had some lovely weekend evening parties there, especially when the cold night air kept the steam from venting and the place filled with vapor. For days afterward our clothes smelled of sweet maple sap.

One night, in the middle of a party – nobody in the shack visible above the waist – I missed Mother. Hmm. She’d complained about feeling woozy, and wasn’t inside. I stepped out into the night and called. Nothing. The river flowed swiftly past, deep, black, and cold, about twenty feet from the door of the shack. I called a few more times. No answer. I ran back inside and told people she was missing, and that I was going to drive to the firehouse and pull the alarm. I jumped into the Beetle, started it up, and turned it around. Then from the back seat: “What’s going on?”

I haven’t sugared for about thirty years now, but I do love to drop by and shoot the breeze while the fire roars under the arch, stainless steel gleams, the steam reaches up to the roof beams, and the little float valves open and shut as if by magic. There’s usually a six-pack involved, or a quart of white wine. When Bob called, I cleared my calendar, as they say, drained the dogs, and was on my way. He’d told me not to bother to bring any lunch.

The sugarhouse was in farm country in the Town of Shelburne, with Mansfield and Camels Hump on one side, the Adirondacks on the other, and the maple trees uphill. The owner, Don Moore, and his son built it years ago of pine timbers salvaged from an old barn. The walls were decorated with old tools – spiles, saws, augers, a bow saw. Wonder of wonders! it had electricity, and a TV set that brought in Channel 3 from Mount Mansfield. Bob broiled hotdogs and toasted the buns on a long-handled double-screen toaster by holding it in the ash pit just under the fire. His specialty in the Army was logistics, so you know there was a choice of condiments. In deference, I suppose, to the Canadian arch, the beer was Labatt’s. On the windowsill behind us, with the sun shining through them, were three small bottles of syrup from earlier runs.

A lovely visit; and on the way home beside the sparkling Winooski, I decided to make a phone call of my own to Bob in May. “Hey! River’s up. How ‘bout an overnight?”