I would guess that there was not more than two gallons of finished syrup in that kettle when he got done.
Ma Ma filled up several amber Lightening fruit jars, sealed them with sealing wax, and stored them on the pantry shelf. That is, all but one, and we could hardly wait until she whipped up some buckwheat flour, got out the cast iron griddle, put it on the cookstove and baked some golden pancakes.
Hot, just homemade, buttered flapjacks, drowned in fresh maple syrup, will "put hair on yer chest," believe you me. I can well understand how come Little Black Sambo could eat 24 pancakes.
After I had collected the sap and, with much reluctant cooperation from my bride of 40 years (who surely thought I had gone off my rocker), we boiled that water down in the kitchen. The exhaust fan carried out most of the vapor, but for weeks that sweet aroma hung in the air, on the curtains and even on the upholstery. After all of that boiling, we ended up with less than a quart of mighty expensive syrup, what with all the steamed-up wallpaper and mess. But that flavor was worth the effort, and we carefully and stingily doled out the supply, stretching it out as long as possible.
After that experience, I now gladly pay the asking price to those who make the effort to produce that delicious spring elixir.
Perry E. Piper's recollections of his childhood on Muddy Creek - "which lies astraddle of the Indian Boundary Line that old Chief Tecumseh and William Henry Harrison laid out back in 1803" -- have appeared in newspapers in Illinois and Indiana for the past 12 years. He has collected the columns into two volumes of memoirs, available from him at 71 Concordia Drive, Paris, III, 61944.