Our time at the cottage came to an end,and we headed home.As far as I know,my father got his wish,and his children were tanned like...chocolate.So we returned to Moncton and the routine of our lives.Some days we were off to the babysitter's house,some days we stayed home,if my father was not working.It was a time of playing outside with friends,all summer long,or,if the weather was bad ,staying in and watching afternoon movies,which served to do nothing except reinforce all the bad attitudes I was developing about Germans,and Indians-since war movies and westerns were my favorite afternoon entertainment.Secretly,though,I really wanted to meet the German lady who lived next to our cottage.But I never did.
When we got home,we dragged along my mothers huge quantity of cherries,which were destined to become homemade wine.I really don't know why my mother wanted to brew wine,because she was never much of a drinker.My father drank beer,but she would never touch it.Nobody ever kept wine in the house,so far as I know.If out at a social function,my mother would accept a drink if offered,but only one.She felt compelled to do so out of politeness.The same applied to cigarettes.But aside from that,she pretty much had a hard line church approach to alcohol,even though the church we attended could hardly be called hard line.But the idea of making wine seemed a bit of a surprise.Later,when it occurred to me that church and wine making were not exactly separable concepts,it took on an even darker meaning.
As far as I could tell,making wine involved crushing up a whole lot of cherries into this big earthenware crock,and pouring in huge quantities of sugar.The crock then sat downstairs,right beside the furnace,where it was rather hot and dry.After a while,it began to take on a rather rotten odor,and if I was down in the basement,I steered clear of it.I really couldn't figure out why anyone would want to drink what was in that crock. After it had been there for maybe a couple of weeks,my mother strained it through a piece of cheesecloth into another crock.But first she scooped out this film of greenish brown mold that had grown across the top of the cherries.When she had originally mashed down the fruit,she had not bothered to remove the pits.This she allowed to be done by the cheesecloth.And then the crock was left to sit for the furnace for what seemed like a very long time,and I would try hard to stay away from it.Eventually,after straining the wine though cloth several more times,my mother poured it out into big jars,kind of like those very large pickle jars.So,the wine was finally made,but I don't remember ever seeing anyone drinking it.I do recall.though,that several weeks later,some of the wine became part of a misadventure that was bound to go down in my family's legends.
When we got home,we dragged along my mothers huge quantity of cherries,which were destined to become homemade wine.I really don't know why my mother wanted to brew wine,because she was never much of a drinker.My father drank beer,but she would never touch it.Nobody ever kept wine in the house,so far as I know.If out at a social function,my mother would accept a drink if offered,but only one.She felt compelled to do so out of politeness.The same applied to cigarettes.But aside from that,she pretty much had a hard line church approach to alcohol,even though the church we attended could hardly be called hard line.But the idea of making wine seemed a bit of a surprise.Later,when it occurred to me that church and wine making were not exactly separable concepts,it took on an even darker meaning.
As far as I could tell,making wine involved crushing up a whole lot of cherries into this big earthenware crock,and pouring in huge quantities of sugar.The crock then sat downstairs,right beside the furnace,where it was rather hot and dry.After a while,it began to take on a rather rotten odor,and if I was down in the basement,I steered clear of it.I really couldn't figure out why anyone would want to drink what was in that crock. After it had been there for maybe a couple of weeks,my mother strained it through a piece of cheesecloth into another crock.But first she scooped out this film of greenish brown mold that had grown across the top of the cherries.When she had originally mashed down the fruit,she had not bothered to remove the pits.This she allowed to be done by the cheesecloth.And then the crock was left to sit for the furnace for what seemed like a very long time,and I would try hard to stay away from it.Eventually,after straining the wine though cloth several more times,my mother poured it out into big jars,kind of like those very large pickle jars.So,the wine was finally made,but I don't remember ever seeing anyone drinking it.I do recall.though,that several weeks later,some of the wine became part of a misadventure that was bound to go down in my family's legends.
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