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  • Martha Rasche

A Taste of Fall

Three of my sisters and I went on a bus trip to Vermont last week. Another quartet of sisters also was along, as were multiple other sibling configurations.

Our stops included barn-dancing, watching apple cider being made and a quarry being mined for granite, and visiting a maple syrup farm. The throwback-in-time makeup of the itinerary and quaintness of The Green Mountain State facilitated the reminiscing going on among siblings throughout the bus.

As fall set in outside our windows, two sisters from Kentucky remembered their daddy making wine of grapes, elderberries, watermelon and dandelions. Then they recalled how he would encourage them to taste persimmons too early in the season.

”Ooh, we would pucker up!” one said, recalling the bitter taste that left one’s mouth feeling coated in cotton.

”Even brushing your teeth didn’t get rid of the taste,” Ann across the aisle joined in.

Then Liz, from southern Indiana, mentioned her mother using ripe persimmons in pudding as well as cookies.

The conversation ended when the bus pulled into the yard of an old red barn, where metal milk cans lined the rock driveway.

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