Terry Maloney, Cider Maker and Apple Enthusiast, Dies in Colrain, MA

Terry Maloney, know by many cider enthusiasts as the man who (with his wife Judith, with whom he ran a cider and winery business, West County Cider) was responsible for the current cider-making renaissance in the United States, died this past week in his home in Colrain Massachusetts, in a freak accident while checking his cider brewing equipment. Cider making has become particularly popular in New England, with many orchards seeing renewed interest in fruit growing and planting heirloom cider apple varieties. Terry and Judith were consider cider making experts who were frequently interviewed by local media, and their founding of the annual Cider Days has created a yearly event that people travel to from all over the country and abroad.

I didn't know Terry personally, but I salute his pioneering spirit and his love of nature's delectable, useful bounty. Let's all lift a glass of cider in his honor.

The following excerpts come from an announcement earlier this week in the Cider Digest, an online list for cider makers and hobbyists:

It is my sad duty to report the untimely death of one of the best-known and best-loved of America's craft cidermakers -- Terry Maloney of West County Cider in Colrain, Massachusetts.

Terry died in what can only be described as a freak accident yesterday (Friday) in the basement cidermaking room at his home. From what I understand, a piece of filtration equipment full of cider under pressure "exploded" with sufficient force to knock Terry back, and he hit his head hard, causing his death.

Already this morning (Sat), some of Terry's closest friends in the cider community have been on the phone with one another, discussing this shocking and unexpected event. In the course of time, I'm sure that we will organize at least one memorial or tribute (and probably more) to this gentle, affectionate man who -- as much as anyone -- was responsible (along with his terrific wife Judith) for the modern rebirth of cider culture in the US.

I first met Judith and Terry Maloney more than 20 years ago, and we almost immediately became friends. The Maloneys came to western Massachusetts with experience from California vineyards. The beautiful hill towns of Franklin County, MA are a traditional apple-growing and cider-making region, so Terry and Judith began a winery that focused on locally grown fruits like apples and blueberries. Over the years, they have everything from unfiltered Farm Cider (still one of my favorites) to artfully crafted cidre doux and a whole range of distinguished varietals that included Reine de Pomme, Baldwin, Roxbury Russet, Kingston Black, and the astonishingly good, copper-colored Redfield, a signature product of West County Cider and an example of Terry's skill as both a cidermaker and fruit grower.

In addition to making their own cider, Terry and Judith have been central players in promoting craft ciders from all over the US -- as founders and organizers of the annual Cider Days festival, which over the past 15+ years has provided an ever expanding showcase of the best American ciders. All of us -- producers and drinkers alike -- owe the Maloneys our profound respect and gratitude.

Those of us who knew Terry personally will always remember him as a thoughtful, soft-spoken, cultured, but also passionate man, and will miss him greatly. But Terry's death is also a loss to many in the cider world who never met him -- he was a real pioneer who showed the way for so many of today's craft producers. He will be missed.

In honor of Imbolc: The 5th Annual Brigid Poetry Festival

Hosted by Blog o' Gnosis, this poetry festival is intended to celebrate Imbolc and the goddess Brigid who is often associated with this pagan festival. She is the Irish goddess of poetry, healing, and smithcraft, and so a potent symbol for inspiration and creative endeavor, and very welcome during the dormancy of winer.

Some neopagans celebrate Imbolc as a festival with overtones of its Roman festival that occurs a few days later, Lupercalia. (I discuss this in last year's blog post for this holiday). So Imbolc becomes a time to honor Pan, wild god of the forest and its creatures, who are beginning to stir and ready themselves for spring.

But whether your main deity focus for your rites is Pan or Brigid, both can certainly be said to spark creativity: one via the hearth of the heart, one via the fire of the mind (and other places perhaps).

So, a poem for Imbolc (actually, this is a song I wrote some years ago; it still doesn't feel finished):

Man in Green

Saw him in the forest,
His eyes speak trees and vine
Saw him bless the harvest,
His lips taste songs, sweet acorn wine

Green, green his cloak
green, green his hood
green, green the garments of the man in the wood

Saw him dancing shadows
Misty meadow grey, dew-dropping rain
Watched him waltz with the barley mows
Gold and silver shining, warming grain

Green his hazel wand
Green his oaken shield
Green his ivy-covered mantle, the lord of the field

From his hands sweet berries fall,
To the winter sun standing tall,
Autumn’s circling seedlings he returns,
Springtime’s Beltane branches burn.

Running through the forest,
Hunter, brother, master, the Horned One,
Creatures by the Oak King blessed,
Flee forever poison, crossbow and gun

Green the twilight glows
Green the water gleams
Green, green his secrets, the lord of dreams

Dark the midnight forest,
Shroud of starlight, cup of moonlight in your hand
Singing weary souls to rest
All is silence, all is peace o'er all the land

Green, green the stars
Green, green the fire
Green the whispering glade around us
Green the shade of desire

Green, green my eyes
Green, green my heart
Green my love's dusky shadow
The man in the dark.

Happy New Year! Wassail!

Blessings of the New Year to you all, and may your 2010 be full of joy, abundance, and love. My plans for the new year include finding a new home once our house sells, and finding a place with enough space to plant some heirloom apple trees. I also plan to pursue my new hobby interest of brewing apple wine and cider. This will allow us to develop a tradition of wassailing in the new year: here's to pagan homesteading!

If you haven't purchased a new calendar for 2010, I have designed two different calendars with photos of the wild apple trees of the Brushwood Folklore Center. The photos in this post were taken there with my old Pentax. The calendars have many photos of the trees through the seasons, and are on sale now at lulu.com for 30% off if you use the code "AFTERXMAS" at checkout. You can check them out here (basic version), and here (deluxe large version): they have slightly different images, and all photos were taken with either my 1967 Pentax Spotmatic, or my Nikon Coolpix.


(The runestead at Brushwood)

Traditional Yuletide Food and Drink

(Image from starofthebards.com)

Blessings of the Solstice to you all! I have been somewhat remiss in posting to this blog in recent months and I hope to be back here more often from here on in.

This Yuletide, I've been reading a fascinating book written in 1973 by Tristram Potter Coffin called An Illustrated Book of Christmas Folklore. It's well written and very well researched. It covers the history of the holiday from its humble beginnings (yes it mentions Mithras, the Celts and the ancient Romans!) and looks at many customs and traditions regarding foods, agriculture, greenery and rituals and celebrations.

It's particularly fascinating to read about the customs of decorating with trees and greenery, as holly, ivy and mistletoe all have specific folkore attached to them. Yule was time of welcoming back the sun, of course, but also a time to celebrate life, abundance, and fertility in the dark time of the year. Today's customs of celebratory eating, drinking and gift-giving are based in the countryside traditions of people of all social classes sharing their wealth with servants, peasants and all their neighbors. Hence the many traditional songs wherein people appear to be asking for coins, food or drink, and offering a blessing in return.

Of course, one well-loved dish is the boar's head, prepared in Merrie Olde England in a very labored manner. It even has its own song, sung when the dish is brought to table! When prehistoric wild boars became extinct, the dish started to fall out of favor but is apparently still served at one of Oxford's college every year, complete with ritual procession and singing of "The Boar's Head Carol":

"The Boar's Head in hand bear I,
bedecked with bays and rosemarye!

The Boar's Head as I understand,
is the rarest dish in all the land!"

And so on, with a stentorious chorus in Latin.

Not sure where one would get a boar's head these days, but I recently saw a post on the Garden Rant blog about a New York state pig farmer who raises pigs in a humane and natural way, so that is a good place to start. I am always happy to see farmers raising their meat for slaughter in a humane fashion, and think we should all support them when we can.

I also enjoyed reading about the origins of wassailing, and wrote a post about it last year here. The apple orchards were an important source of food and drink to agrarian cultures in the British Isles and Europe, so it is not surprising they were included in the rituals of blessing at Yuletide.

Apparently there is a real rising interest in this custom today, as seen in this article from The Wild Hunt blog last year, and from the looks of events like this one at an orchard and winery in Wisconsin. Wassailing has a long tradition in England, where it's traditional to do it on Twelfth Night.
(Painting by Henry Justice Ford, "The Sun Hero Guards the Apples of the Sun" from Victorianweb.org)
American pagans seem to enjoy making it part of their Yule traditions. I'd certainly love to see this tradition on the rise in the United States, as more and more people plant backyard orchards and try to support local farms. It seems to me a most pagan custom, and surely one that will insure a fruitful yield, if you believe that talking to plants helps them grow better (and I do).

This chant is sung at the "Wassailing the Apple Trees" event in Carhampton, Somerset:

"Old apple tree, we wassail thee,
And hoping thou wilt bear
For the Lord doth know where we shall be
Till apples come another year.
For to bear well, and to bloom well
So merry let us be,
Let every man take off his hat,
And shout to the old apple tree!
Old apple tree, we wassail thee,
And hoping thou wilt bear
Hatfuls, capfuls and three bushel bagsful
And a little heap under the stairs,
Hip, Hip, Hooray!"

How could the orchard not be heavy with fragrant, juicy fruit after being thus blessed?
(Painting by William Holman Hunt, "Hercules in the Garden of the Hesperides" from Victorianweb.org)

Cider Renaissance in New England

This story on National Public Radio explores the growing and exciting hard cider industry in the New England States. Cider and apple fans in the Northeast have already been able to attend workshops on cider making, cider tastings and dinners featuring hard cider at the annual Cider Days festival in western Massachusetts.

So, is hard cider brewing poised to be the microbrewing of the new millennium? Please let it be so. This blog seems to be forging ahead with plenty of great information and anecdotes. American apple growers, who used to be able to sell their drop apples for cider making, now have to deal with the fact that cheaper Chinese imports are now the main source of cider apples in the United States. So some orchards are feeling the pinch from this lack of livelihood.

Hard ciders are best made from flavorful apples high in acid. These varieties are often unsuitable for fresh eating or baking. The antique varieties have delightful old world names like Ashmead's Kernel, Roxbury Russet (which originated in the Boston area), Muscadet de Dieppe, Newtown Pippin, Sweet Coppin, Harry Masters Jersey, Tremblett Bitter, Kingston Black, Hudson's Golden Gem, Brown Snout, and Foxwhelp. There are a number of tree nurseries that specialize in such antique cider apple varieties, including the Raintree Nursery, Trees of Antiquity, the the Greenmantle Nursery,and Burntridge Nursery.

So get out there and support hard cider brewers! Remember, they keep orchard businesses thriving.

A Poem for Samhain

This poem was writen on the plane from Amsterdam to Boston, after a weekend spent in Leiden for a conference. It was a wonderful weekend, with a very small group of scholars (thirty or so) giving talks in one room (on The Erotic in English Poetry), and we even had a terrific evening of poetry and song. Great food, beautiful city, made some new friends and had one of the best Samhains I have ever had, despite not formally celebrating the holiday. The capital city of Holland is both very ancient and very modern: at night, through my window open to the street below, I only heard footsteps, bicycles, occasional hoofbeats and the occasional soft voice or click of a lighter. Very civilized and peaceful. I can't wait to go back.


Transplendent We

It's deceptive, this light at Hallows.
A mask of wind and water, spinning, sparkling,
like silver spokes, or falling leaves, or candy floss,
or false conviviality, too-fast friends.
As the river curves to meet us, we shamble along,
soaked with mist, parched for ale,
like troubadours, or troubled ghosts,
on our way to a midnight market,
there to choose cakes and berries from the goblin stalls,
in the shadow of forbidden castles and glowing maples,
the walkways bright as coins beneath our feet.

Here where the sloping banks converge,
the trees lean in, as if to kiss,
thorned and black on the right, airy and golden on the left,
Bacchus, Hecate, Apollo, Aphrodite,
nuzzling, glancing approval as we invent words
to mark this season of harvest.
No yellow moon, no sheaves of wheat, no bawdy lyric,
but ploughshares swinging,
hoofed beasts clocking over wet grey streets to sleep in tranquil barns.

The red blush creeping up your throat surprises us all,
like brazen hollyhocks that suddenly realize
they've reached the second floor.
Dizzy with drink and drunk on autumn's ether,
we find the otherworld we've sought all evening.
Its hollow hills ring, empty as dessicated bulbs,
yet bright with color, flowing with nectar,
its great halls lit with rustic lanterns,
candles set in carved-out turnips, meant to keep spirits at bay,
and yet soon the very air is keening.
The sky is slowly tinted green.
Our tongues are slippery with juice.
The clock strikes three, three times,
and we are younger than we were.

I started to like you, your small hands like Proustian sweets.
I started to like you, you and your words like dark abundant rain,
poppyseeds poured out on cobblestones.
Simple folk we, laughing long songs like books of fruited verse.
There where the cats consider the canal,
the moon at last emerges, and we become
more and more unfashionable by the minute.
I conjure a forest from a single tree:
like ardent sloths, we hold fast to its mutant trunk,
hard, rough, pulsing with faint heat.
It multiplies into a fairy-tale wood, varied as Paradise,
thick with English bluebells and rhetorical mushrooms;
it smells of sex and stagnant water,
hashish, leafmold, bile and burnt sugar, rotting velvet,
and tobacco that ought to be Turkish.

We could be anywhere: a Holland of the Mind,
or drowned Ys, forgotten Brittany,
a temple of jewels in Morocco,
a chalk hillside hewn by pagan muralists,
a Danish bog stuffed with dead druids,
a green field in America,
Constantinople, Brigadoon,
or a fragrant churchyard that beckons in dreams,
like mementos from a love lost in war-time,
coal-dust in your hair, violets in your pocket.

The veil between the worlds is thin, they say, tonight.
And if we walk now to the marketplace
(we fancy it built of fog and fireflies)
the goblins will smile, cry hail and welcome!
They nod their heads, stroke our hair, grasp our fingers,
whisper, yes, the veil grows thin, grows thin.
They hand us three lengths of shimmering cloth,
dyed the colour of winter plums, smelling of old roses.
We give them all the gold we have.
We wrap ourselves in purple.
We wake, and seven days have passed, or seven years.
Our fingers are torn, stained red with fruit.
Our lips are bruised, and taste of truth.
I touch your mouth, and it is the sun.

Leiden, Samhain, 2006

This poem was first published in Goblin Fruit Autumn 2007.

Poetic thoughts for September's New Moon

(Photo taken by me at Brushwood Folkore Center in Sherman, NY in September 2008)

September, like the advent of school, seems to arrive determined to educate us in the ways of deja vu and that most human emotion of melancholy. The days and nights struggle for balance as the equinox approaches: between light and dark, cold and warmth, color and sere greyness. I crave words that will make sense of it all and often find myself scribbling bits of verse or seeking out obscure and near-forgotten prose and poems. John Updike, one of my favorite writers, was my thoughts this week when a New England friend mentioned that her close friend is his daughter. Reading The Widows of Eastwick a few months ago, not knowing Updike was struggling with cancer, I found myself thinking more than once that this might be his last novel, and it was.

Updike studied to be a painter before he became a writer, and his novels and other writings overflow with stunning, thoughtful imagery. Like this short piece, called "September."

The breezes taste
Of apple peel.
The air is full
Of smells to feel-
Ripe fruit, old footballs,
Burning brush,
New books, erasers,
Chalk, and such.
The bee, his hive,
Well-honeyed hum,
And Mother cuts
Chrysanthemums.
Like plates washed clean
With suds, the days
Are polished with
A morning haze.

Wordsworth also wrote a poem called "September":

Departing summer hath assumed
An aspect tenderly illumed,
The gentlest look of spring;
That calls from yonder leafy shade
Unfaded, yet prepared to fade,
A timely carolling.

And this piece by Thomas Parsons captures the unique happy melancholy of the month:

Sorrow and scarlet leaf,
Sad thoughts and sunny weather.
Ah me, this glory and this grief
Agree not well together!

- "A Song For September"

And these endlessly evocative words that I was compelled to sing one morning this week to greet the blue-gold day:

Try to remember the kind of September
When life was slow and oh so mellow
Try to remember the kind of September
When grass was green and grain so yellow
Try to remember the kind of September
When you were a young and a callow fellow
Try to remember and if you remember
Then follow...

- Tom Jones and Harvey Schmidt

Want to read more? Check out one of my favorite websites for quotes about nature and the seasons.