Dear Kid,
Dad has decided to tap the maple grove. The maple grove in our front yard consisting of exactly one youngish tree.
Dad: Do you know what a spile is?
Me: Yes.
Dad: You do?
Me: Of course I do. I read all the Hunger Games books.
Dad: Huh?
Me: Never mind. I know what a spile is.
So Dad and NeighborFriend drilled a hole in our tree, plugged in the spile, and rigged an entire system to harvest maple sap.
They forgot to ask the tree how she felt about having the procedure done.
Apparently she wasn’t so much in favor of being harvested.
So far, we have an elaborate rig, a broken spile, and no sap collected.
Dad has explained—in exquisite detail—that this is due to the warm weather (which will soon be corrected), not clearing out the hole for the spile (which has now been “mended” with a straw), and other metaphysical inconsistencies.
Just so we’re clear: do not count on maple syrup supplementing your inheritance. You’ll be lucky if it supplements your pancake. Singular.
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