Doris is at my front door. Well, it's a side door really, to my motor home. And, as is the custom in campgrounds, she doesn't knock. People don't knock on motor home doors, I've noticed. They stand a few feet away and holler out "Are you there?" Or "Hello?" Or as my friend Carolyn hollers, "Are you up?"
Doris hollers "Hi" so I know she's there.
When I answer the door, she holds a Mason jar of maple syrup up to me (she doesn't climb the three steps into my motor home; I'm standing at the top of the stairs and she's at the bottom, so she holds the syrup up to me).
And because she's holding it up, the sun tries to pass through it, and I see it's nearly opaque. The thick, rich amber syrup is clean and pure, not a blemish floats in it. I know immediately how special this pint jar is.
Lowell, Doris' husband, taps his Minnesota maples in early spring and cooks the sap out in the woods until it turns into this delicious, naturally sweet treat. It's his hobby, he says, just like bird watching.
I met Doris and Lowell while bird watching (they rode in my car), and later, I invited them to use our Wi-Fi.
The syrup is a Thank You. A Thank You that far outweighs the favor, I'd say.
Tonight, we buy pancake mix.
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