I pulled slowly into the farmyard driveway, keeping an eye out for dogs, cats, and chickens. My friends were nowhere to be seen, but the buckets we were going to clean (104 of them) were spread out by the entrance to the enormous red barn.

When I had offered to help with “whatever needs doing” I wasn’t sure what that might be. Washing out sap buckets was not top of my imaginary list, but it made sense. Syrup season had just ended and the pile of buckets spoke of a very successful haul. Also (and my friends are far too kind to say this) I don't have the skills to do much else.

After a few hours of scrubbing, rinsing, and stacking, we stopped to have lunch. Dairy farmers eat early, and I was grateful to sit down.

After a delicious homemade lunch of beans and brown bread, we walked up to see my friend’s son’s new sap house. It was a thing of beauty. He had made it from “directions in a book” my friend told me. I was suitably impressed. I mentioned that I should do an article about it for one of the New England magazines. Both my friends said a quick “Oh, that’s ok. We really don’t want any more people to know we’re here.”

And there you have it. It wasn’t unkindness, just New England honesty, and absolutely no desire for publicity.

As I drove home to my neighboring state of Maine, I stopped off at a little store down the hill. Getting out of the car, I saw that they were closed on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. As I was getting back in my car, a pleasant looking woman came out of the parking area and said, “Sorry, we’re closed. Were you looking for anything special? I could get you a nice cup of coffee.” I must have looked puzzled, the former New Yorker in me wondering, "If they're closed why is she offering me coffee?” But I just said, “No, thanks.” We talked for a few minutes. She knew my friends up the road (of course she did) and was glad they had had a good syrup-year. I told her I'd be back on a day she was open.

I continued on my way, and pulled into another farm where more friends live. No one seemed to be around there either, but as I lifted the box I had stopped to deliver I heard a quiet “hello” coming from the barn. A young boy appeared.  I recognized him as my friend's next to youngest son. We stood there talking for a few minutes about next fall when he would finish his home schooling and go to the local high school; about the cows he had been cleaning up after; about syrup. There was no reaching for his phone (he doesn’t have one) or bored looks, he just stood there, chatting. I said good bye and started to pull away. I heard him say, “Wait, your trunk is open.” I stopped and started to get out of the car, but he ran down the stairs and closed it for me, laughing and saying that he was glad he had caught it before I pulled out onto the hilly road.

And that was my morning.

The kindness of strangers; the kindness of friends (young and old); the feeling of doing a hard job, and resting afterwards; the opportunity to help friends, even though their work has nothing to do with mine.

Or does it?

After all, I now have something sweet and wonderful to write about. I also have a deeper respect for people who get up early day after day to care for their animals and farms and, by extension, their families and communities. And I  have a deeper affection for the young people whose parents have taught them to look people in the eye and give them their full attention.

It was a good morning in New Hampshire, and the maple syrup I brought back from the farm, that I now know has been in those buckets, was that much sweeter.

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