Ihr liewe Leit:
‘S watt keihler, gell? Ya, ‘s iss gewiss Zeit fer mol widder Seider
un Lattwarrick mache. Der H. L. Fisher (1822-1909) hot der Seider gegliche wu
mit der alt Seiderpress gemacht warre iss, wie er uns in seim Buch Die Alde
Zeide verzeehlt:
Vun Sieder will ich net viel saage,
Es dutt mer doch yuscht leed;
Es waar meh Gschpass in Seider gwesst
Der gemacht waar uff der alt Press,
(Wu deel devun noch schteht,)
Ass in em allerbeschde Wei;
Du lachscht un froogscht, ‘Wie kennt sell sei?”
Des will ich dier aa saage nau,
Noh kannscht du’s aa verschteh;
Der Seider hot uff die Aart geschafft –
Du weesscht er hot meh Saft un Graft
Un schlaagt em in die Behe –
Der Wie, der hot eem scheefrich gemacht,
Der Seider hot eem uffgewacht.
Un wann die Gieg noch gange iss,
Waar’n ganse Nacht ken Ruh;
Der Seider hot uns uffgewacht,
Die Geig, die hot uns danse gemacht,
In Schtiffel odder Schuh;
Wann Schuh un Schtiffel waar verrannzt,
Dann hen mer in de Schtrimp gedanst.
Awwer sell waar lang zerrick, un nau iss die alt Press gans schtill.
Die Redder drehe nimmi, un’s iss am Zammefalle. Lest mol en paar Vaerscht
aussem Adam Stump seim Gedicht “Die Alt Seider Miehl”:
Do schteht die alt, alt Seider Miehl,
Als hett sie noch en yunges Gfiehl.
Der Groosvadder in alder Zeit
Hot sie fer ihrem Zweck bereit.
Die Ebbelschaale hot er vermaahle,
Un dreschder gmacht bis es gegracht.
Vergang die Zeit un all die Leit.
Die aldi Miehl schteht schtill un dumm,
Es geht nix me him Gringel rum.
En Amschel, wie en yungi Braut,
Hot in dem Karb ihr Nescht gebaut,
Datt singt sie lieblich un weess nix rieblich;
Mei Heem is do, ich abin so froh!
Dem Haerr iss alles zuverdraut!”
Adje, du aldi liewi Miehl,
Du gebscht mer yetz en wehes Gfiehl,
Die Luscht der Kindheit, wie des Laab,
Geht mit dir zu Esch un Schtaab.
Gans vermaahle, bis an die Schaale,
Zehrt uns die Welt in unser Zelt.
Un dreibt des Lewe in des Graab.
Macht’s gut,
Der Alt Professer
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Dear people:
It’s getting cooler, isn’t it? Yes, it is certainly time once again
to make cider and apple butter. H. L. Fisher (1822-1909) liked the cider
that was made with the old cider press, as he tells us in his book
Olden Times:
Of cider I don’t want to say too much,
It just causes me pain;
There was more fun in cider
That was made in the old press,
(Of which some still stand,)
Than in the best of wine;
You laugh and ask, “How can that be?”
That is what I want to tell you now,
Then you will also understand;
The cider worked in this fashion –
You know it has more juice and power
And hits one in the legs –
The wine, it made one tired;
The cider woke one up.
And when the fiddle was still playing,
There was not rest for the whole night;
The cider woke us up,
The fiddle, it made us dance,
In boots or in shoes;
When shoes and boots were worn out,
Then we danced in our stockings.
But that was a long time ago, and now the old press is very still.
The wheels don’t turn anymore, and it is falling apart. Just read a couple
of verses from Adam Stump’s poem “The Old Cider Mill”:
Here stands the old, old cider mill,
As if it still had a young feeling.
Grandfather a long time ago
Readied it for its purpose.
The apple peels he ground up,
And made pomace to beat the band.
Time went by (along with) all the people.
The old mill stands still and quiet;
Nothing goes in circles anymore,
A robin, like a young bride,
Has made a nest in a basket,
There she sings dearly and knows nothing sad;
“My home is here, I am so happy!”
I trust in God in everything!”
Goodbye, you dear old mill,
You now give me such a hurt feeling,
The happiness of childhood, like the foliage,
Goes with you into ashes and dust.
Entirely ground up, right to the skins,
The world consumes us in our tent,
And drives life into the grave.
Take care,
The Old Professor
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