June 29, 2013

Hard Apple Cider

I remember those early days in George School, the smell in the air. It was wet leaves mostly. Lindsay Ryder Myers and I were best friends. We perceived ourselves as outlaws. We went for long long walks on the railroad tracks outside of school, smoking filterless Camels and braving the scary railroad bridges, talking to the strange boys we'd see there occasionally. We'd ride the train to Philly and get old drunk guys to buy us Boone's Farm Apple Wine. We stayed up all night listening to Leonard Cohen and Roberta Flack. She was in love with Phillip, Phillip barely knew she was alive. I was in love with anyone who would look at me twice: Tom Harris who gave me my kitten Dona, Mike Nelson who gave me my first joint. Lindsay and I tried brewing some hard apple cider once. We thought all we had to do was let the cider sit for a few weeks, and we'd have us some joy juice. So, we bought some cider at the bakery where we could get a whole bag of day old goods in a huge grocery bag. We put the cider by the radiator one day and sat there eating through that bag of goodies. Sometimes if you were lucky, there would be a whole pie in there. Well, we forgot about the cider. One day my roommate was looking for her shoes or something, and pulled out the glass jug of cider, now cloudy and slightly moldy. "What's this?" she asked. I pretended I didn't know where it came from, I was so embarrassed.

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