There was an orchard on the dairy farm.
My uncle told me, “One year in my teens
there were so many apples that the farm
couldn’t use them all, in spite of
apple pies, apple crisps, and
apple brown betties coming out
of our ears. I had visions of hard cider
but Gramp had me pitch all the surplus
apples in a wagon, then pulled it into Beloit
and left it in the poorest section of town.
When we returned the next day
the wagon was empty. I applauded Gramp’s
generosity but saw my hard-cider
vision dwindle away!”
This article appears in October 16-22, 2025.
