"Have you ever seen a Christmas tree farm?"

Ellie Millard asks me this as we drive from Sherbrooke to Compton. "Welcome to dairy country," or "you need maple syrup?--this is the place to get it" quickly follow. We pull into a property cluttered with bits of wood and tarp and buildings and structures. The house reminds me of Aurora's cottage in Disney's "Sleeping Beauty." It is 2:00, but Susanne and Ellie set a spread of leftovers for me--spinach and cheese quiche, green salad with sesame dressing, apple pie in a round run-off pan, and fresh apple cider. Little do I know I will soon physically become a member of the process. The remainder of the afternoon Susanne and I wash apples in large tin buckets--cutting off worm holes and bruises--and send them through Paul's homemade machine, grinding them into a mush from which one can, with the aid of a crank, squeeze out the juice. We press into the dark and chilly hours, when even hobby turns into frustrated duty, taking breaks to walk through the neighboring orchard where Ellie has a deal with the owner to glean apples left on the ground. I like to imagine her there in the early morning, finding perfect delight in the task.

I am in Compton, in the Eastern townships, to celebrate Canada's Thanksgiving. And I am thankful; this is what I think of as we go around to say what we are grateful for. I am thankful for dinners around a table, for familial tasks like washing dishes, or drying dishes, or stumbling around a foreign kitchen to put dishes away. I am thankful for Ellie tapping out hymns on the piano in the next room--ones that I request like "Come Thou Fount" and "Be Thou My Vision"--and for Susanne's comraderie. With a hymn book placed on the counter above the sink, we sing along, into second and third verses, as we clean the kitchen. I am thankful for Paul who keeps a fire in the woodstove, who shares with me his photos and his philosophy on organic farming. I am thankful for the lives and processes of this family, for their system of gardening and canning and recycling and environmental conscientiousness. I am thankful for Balderdash with Jonathan and Ellie and Paul and Susanne, for the impossibility of avoiding definitions that propogate inside jokes from earlier rounds. I am thankful for Indian Summer days in New England fall settings. I am thankful for apples and apple presses and walks in the northern Appalachians; Canada on one side, Vermont on the other.

These are the things I think of, while sitting down to a (chicken) Thanksgiving dinner, and as I sit here now, back in the noise of Montreal and routine. There's so much detail to extract from the weight of apples squeezing, from a walk to a sugar shack in the woods, from a family that laughs to tears, drinks tea, whistles, and sings. Each character deserving many more pages, each moment desiring further treatment. But this is a start, and it's enough to say that I'm quite content.