<body><div><figure><img src="https://img.particlenews.com/image.php?type=thumbnail_580x000&amp;url=46NANZ_0vvq0XIH00" alt="https://img.particlenews.com/image.php?url=46NANZ_0vvq0XIH00" width="375" height="500" ><figcaption>An older-style cider press is used during school tours at Maple Ridge Orchard. For the 1,000 gallons of cider squeezed for commercial sales, a stainless-steel-bladder press is used. Jane Fyksen/Agri-View</figcaption></figure>When Dad took me and my big sister to Omaha for college in the fall of 1962, Interstate 29 was just being built.We mostly drove two-lane roads. Between Sioux City and Omaha, the narrow highway had curbs at either side. I suppose the curbs didn’t make the driving lanes narrower, but from the passenger seat, it sure looked like they did. I didn’t worry. Dad was a skilled driver, if a bit fast. In fact, I dozed frequently, which shortened the trip.My sister Jeanne wanted a bachelor’s degree in nursing from Creighton University. She already was a registered nurse. The family had driven to Sioux Falls the previous spring for her capping ceremony, back when nurses wore caps.I was enrolled at Creighton as a freshman, nervous and already feeling far from home.Somewhere south of Onawa, Iowa, where my dear Aunt Delores lived, we drove through a small town called River Sioux. I don’t know if it still exists, but kids from Sioux Falls who were at Creighton with me said the local police were real sticklers for the speed limit. If so, Dad must have let off the gas just enough to avoid a traffic stop.Just past the town, I came out of a half-nap because he stopped at a roadside stand advertising ice-cold-cider. The stand was home-made, nicely done and freshly painted, with a small awning that shaded the counter where the cash register sat. The place offered a choice of cider – apple or cherry – served up in gallon jugs made of glass. Dad bought one of each kind, and we sipped straight out of the jug the rest of the way to Omaha.<h2>People are also reading…</h2>My goodness, that cider was a treat. Usually, I can take cider or leave it. That day, with the sun high in a cloudless sky and a light breeze making the first golden leaves of approaching autumn skip and tumble across the highway, I really wanted cider. I believe I could have polished off both gallons by myself.I had sampled apple cider before. The folks bought a jug once in a rare while, for special occasions. I had never tried cherry cider, had never heard of it, to be honest. The sharp, sweet taste on my tongue was magical on that lovely September day. Years later, I tried cherry cider again. It was terrific, but it wasn’t magical. Perhaps I had grown jaded?As we neared what Dad called the Mormon Bridge to cross the Missouri River into Omaha, I wondered briefly where a business in a small Iowa town got cherries for cider. Then the big city swallowed us up. I forgot the cider and the cherries and gawked around as we neared campus.I still don’t know if someone could grow cherries in Iowa. I had an aunt in Lyman County in the middle of South Dakota who made her own wine. She used chokecherries, which grew in several of the deeper draws in her family’s south pasture. I have been told she made some fine-tasting chokecherry wine. I was never old enough to rate even a sip. I’ll bet my aunt would have outdone herself with a batch of fresh cherries for her wine.After a year at Creighton, I transferred to South Dakota State in Brookings. I like to say that when I started there, it was a college. It became South Dakota State University during my time on campus. I wasn’t solely responsible for the upgrade, but I’m pretty sure I had an impact.During my years at State, I roomed a couple of times with a guy named Mike. We met in third grade in Chamberlain when the folks moved our family to town for the school years. We had a couple of falling outs during our college years. What best friends don’t when they try to live together? We left school best friends, though, and we stayed that way until he died a few years ago.One fall, heading back to campus from a weekend home, we stopped at a watermelon stand along Highway 34 near Forestburg. The folks at the roadside stand sold us the biggest, ripest melon I have ever seen. We broke it open and ate it as we traveled. The front seat, dash, steering wheel and AM radio knobs of my ’57 Chevy were a sticky mess when we reached campus.I enjoyed that melon, but a jug of cherry cider would have been much less messy.Terry is a well-known regional columnist who lives in Chamberlain, S.D.</div></body>

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The fruits of fall

When Dad took me and my big sister to Omaha for college in the fall of 1962, Interstate 29 was just being built. We mostly drove two-lane roads. Between Sioux City and Omaha, the narrow highway had curbs at either side. I suppose the curbs didn’t make the driving lanes narrower, but from the passenger seat, it sure looked like they did. I didn’t worry. Dad was a skilled driver, if a bit fast. In fact, I dozed frequently, which shortened the trip.

The fruits of fall

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