Dad called last night on his way home from the farm where they've spent the last few days making molasses. It was funny to hear him say over and over "well, it's a long story but ..." I wish it could be a pleasant family tradition of cutting cane, milling it for juice and swapping stories as we all sit around the cooker. But it's more of a grueling few days of hard labor.
At least Dad sounded optimistic on the way home that next year would be better.
There's always next year.