Right about now, Katie would have been grateful for a break from the heat. Her turn at stirring the apple butter paddle was about up, and the fire under the copper kettle needed choking down a bit. “Freddie,” Katie said, stopping him before he threw on another log, “we probably ought to let that fire die down a smidge or the apples are bound to stick.” “I’m sorry, Katie.” He returned the log to the stack, then hurried back to take over the paddle. “I’ll stir next, if’n you’d like to rest.” He picked up one end of the seven-foot-long paddle and set his rhythm to match hers. Back and forth he rocked with one end of the handle against his hip and the other fastened to the flat paddle that stirred the bubbling apple chunks in the pot. Stepping slowly, he followed the circular path around the fire that had been made from hours of walking and rocking by a host of apple butter makers. Three large kettles were working today, though not as hard as the women making the apple butter.
