Page 2 of Wassailing We Will Go
There are a few more cideries besides us in the County, as well as a slew of breweries, wineries and distilleries—really, no shortage of alcohol-based attractions for tourists to visit. Usually, a new business opening up doesn’t hurt anyone. A rising tide lifts all ships and all that. But this particular cidery cut right into us, right away. The owners are a young power couple, a designer-slash-influencer from Vancouver and a cider maker who trained out in the Okanagan, and their success was immediate. When bitter&sweet opened this spring, I saw our traffic drop noticeably.
We still had a decent summer, as every business usually does in Prince Edward County, but once the busy season started to drop, so did our sales. Precipitously. Sparks Cidery opened its doors over twenty years ago and has been a top-rated tourist destination for at least the last fifteen of those. Until this past spring, when we started dropping down the lists.
I can see the results of it, even now as I look out the window of my office, as an unspeakably ugly purple PT Cruiser drives into the bare parking lot, does a loop, and drives back out, clearly having missed the earlier turnoff for b&s.
And when I scroll through their social media feed, I have to admit, I just don’t get it. I don’t get the appeal. I’ve tried their cider, and it’s…fine. So, is it just that they’re new and novel? The fact that the owners, Britt and Ryan, are model-level attractive? Is it the minimalist Scandinavian decor? Could it be Milo, the bandana-wearing blue heeler that they feature in every other photo on social media? Because I could do that. I could get a dog if it brought our sales back up. An even cuter one than Milo, too.
Even as I think it, though, I realize that as tempting as it is, a puppy is probably not the solution to my problems, and that my cat, Steven, would have strong opinions on this.
I need to follow the advice I just gave to Daniel and Wendy: we deliver on Wassail, in a big way. Wassail is the end-of-the-year bash, a County-wide Christmas festival celebrating the year’s harvest and the winter solstice, the origins of which are rooted in centuries of cider-making traditions in the UK. We are still the cidery in Prince Edward County. The OG. No new TikTok cidery darling can take that from us.
With this thought, I am filled with resolve, determined to get every Christmas light up within the day. I have a fear of heights and never go past the third rung of a ladder unless I have to, but hell, today, I’ll do it in the name of Christmas spirit. This place is about to be festive AF.
I start to walk back to the tasting bar to deliver a rousing speech to my two grumpy managers, and I am determined to fill their hearts with holiday spirit and their brains with inspiration for ways to further increase revenue. By the time I’m done, no one will even remember bitter&sweet. I open the door to the tasting room, ready to inspire.
And then I hear the sirens.
CHAPTER TWO
WHEN ALL IS SAID AND done, Charlie is fine. Mostly.
He is fine in that his broken ankle is expected to heal in anywhere from six to eight weeks. He is fine in that his wife, Gwen, has been doting on him since he left the hospital.
He is not fine in that he is physically incapacitated and panicking about the several hundred thousand litres of cider currently in various states of the initial fermentation. He is not fine in that he still refuses to acknowledge that he might need to take a few steps back to heal.
I visited him as soon as he got home from the ER. Gwen led me into their living room, where I was met with sounds of distress that had nothing to do with his pain and everything to do with the Toronto Maple Leafs losing, and I was at least relieved to hear that no matter what Charlie’s state was, he apparently still had a lot of pep left over for swearing at hockey players.
How are you doing, Charlie? I asked. I had stopped by the store on the way there and handed him a clamshell container of banana nut muffins and a six-pack of Diet Pepsi, his two chief vices. I didn’t want to show up empty-handed and wanted to be sure it’d be something he liked.
Horrible, he said, motioning to the screen. They’re blowing a 3-1 lead. Aaron needs to get his ass back up here from Florida and guard the net for a Canadian team.
I rolled my eyes at this. I had not come to discuss my younger brother’s hockey career, a topic that had a history of overshadowing every conversation I tried to have. Apparently, Aaron loves Tampa. And anyway, as much as I’m deeply concerned about the Leafs’ shot at the playoffs this year, I am primarily concerned about you. How is your ankle? I asked, nodding toward the propped-up leg.
It’ll be fine in a few weeks, he grumbled. I broke my whole leg back when I was fourteen, felt like it healed overnight. Not anymore, I guess, he sighed. Don’t get old, Kate.
What’s the alternative? I asked.
And he’ll have to go to physio once the cast comes off, Gwen chimed from the next room.
I’m almost done with the workplace safety report, I said. You’ll get compensated for your time away to recover.
He grumbled under his breath. There’s no need for all that. It was just a little slip from a leaky tap on one of the tanks—could have happened to anyone. I don’t need time off.
Gwen stormed in, brandishing a kitchen towel like a deadly weapon. Yes, you do! You need to heal, Charlie!
Barb says she can send Hugo your way to help you with the physical stuff? He’s a great guy, been with us for a few years now out in the orchards. What do you think?
I can heal and make cider at the same time! And it’s still the harvest season! And— yes, boys! There we go! he said as he caught the goal out of his peripheral, even as his wife whipped him in the shoulder with a dish towel. A little thing like a broken ankle (at the age of seventy-two, no less) still paled in comparison to a goal from the Leafs.
After that, I went home. I would deal with Charlie when he had fewer painkillers in his system and no Leafs game to watch.
Home is a cottage that I rent from my aunts, a picturesque little house on the lake. They bought it as a rental property but let me move in last year when I came back to the County from Toronto to take over managing the cidery. Truth be told, they could be making a lot more money from it as a vacation property than the pittance I pay in rent, but as I pull into the gravel driveway, I’m not feeling particularly gracious about my cute cottage, the cidery, or any current aspect of my life. Maybe tomorrow, I’ll be back to some level of appreciation for the opportunities I’ve been given, but for the present, I’m going to wallow. Hard.
The past year has been a roller coaster, and most days, I alternate between being grateful and proud that my aunts left me in charge of their life’s work and inwardly throwing a temper tantrum that they left me alone to deal with such a beast of an operation. After being the general manager of Sparks Cidery for the last ten months, I can easily see how the business nearly ruined their marriage. And honestly, if managing it between them nearly led to their divorce, how on earth did they think one disaster twenty-seven-year-old (me) could do it on their own?
As soon as I get inside my tiny living room full of charmingly mismatched furniture, I face-plant onto the couch. Three seconds later, my cat, Steven, jumps up on me and starts purring and kneading my back. It would be sweet if he didn’t also have his claws out and weigh as much as an average human toddler.
Ouch, Stevie! I say. I can’t even indulge in a few moments of pathetic self-pity without another creature needing my attention. He’s not even sorry as he runs to his food dish and wails at me.
