BURLEY - Before cider day, Leon Johnson prepared.

In a venerable shed near his home east of Burley, he rearranged lights, added shelves, hung a portrait of his wife on the wall opposite Robert Frost's apple-picking poem.

By the appointed Saturday, long before the November slant of sunlight touched the shed, a rusty pickup held bags of empty jugs, and wheelbarrows waited to accept crushed pulp. A narrow drainage ditch had clean-shoveled sides. Apple varieties were boxed and sorted and lovely. The pencils were sharp.

The Johnsons' family cider-pressing day is worthy of anticipation.

It's the sweet fulfillment of harvest, with loved ones and a common goal - jugs of sweet, tart joy preserved for winter tables. No wonder Leon longs for this morning.

I arrive to see Leon's brother Dean Johnson hosing off the cider press and rinsing buckets, and the ditch carries the water neatly away. Dean's wife and son, Kay and 15-year-old Josh, prepare to wash the day's apples, from both Johnson brothers' orchards. Propane burners heat pots of wash water and take the edge off the chill inside the cider shed.

Leon's daughter Elizabeth Miller arrives from Hagerman with her four Firth children, and Leon happily presents his family. Many more are expected.

"I didn't introduce you to my wife - she had to be present," Leon tells me, gesturing to the portrait. JoAnn died of cancer in May, and this is the first cider pressing without her. "Everything's first this year."

Leon, his voice always quiet, directs traffic in the small space. He fills needs before they're realized - like a bucket for apple waste by Elizabeth's side at one of the portable sinks.

Naturally, Leon has a stool ready for little helpers to feed apples into the grinder atop the press. Natalie Firth, 9, is first.

"When we get some more help, we'll get a little more organized here," Leon says, starting the grinder. Seven-year-old Brenna Firth climbs up to help her sister drop in apples: as Grandpa instructs, a half-bucket each of red delicious, yellow delicious, Jonathans and tart Blushing Goldens. Kay and Elizabeth snap photos. The first rich drops hit the stainless steel pot under the press.

"I wanna drink that!" Natalie says. Leon, of course, has supplied disposable cups, but there's not enough cider yet to taste.

With the first bag of ground apples under the press screw, Leon warns Dillon Firth, 12, to take care spinning the metal handle.

"It isn't forgiving," Kay adds. "Those of us who've been whacked with it know."

Two more vehicles pull up and relatives from Rexburg and Utah pile out, some quickly returning for coats.

"There's the Petersen boys, ready to work!" Kay calls to a grinning pair.

Dillon, scared to crank too tight, looks for reassurance as the press begins to creak. Sitting on a low stool, Leon scoops cider from the pot, funneling it into plastic gallons. "Don't knock Grandma off the wall there," he calls to newcomers clustered at the press.

The excitement of reunion has distracted the children from the first rush of new cider. "Somebody ought to taste that and see if it's worth doing," Leon says.

Dillon - after Grandpa stops him from offering his own cup - catches a fresh cupful for me as cider flows from the press. It's just sweet enough, just tart enough. Perfection.

Leon borrows from Mark Twain to express his pride. The difference between storebought cider and his own, he says, is the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning. With dripping gloves, he hugs more little newcomers.

Dean stops the overloaded grinder when boys feed in apples too quickly, and his brother instructs the kids who join the washing: Scrub the apples, separate the varieties. Kay arrests a toddler who plucks a rotten bit from the trimmings bucket.

"The apples are tasting better this year," Dillon says. Then he acknowledges: "Maybe because I forgot what it tasted like last year."

Yes, cider day is old and ever new. Pressing parties are traditional in the Johnson family, and today is at once timeless and present.

Outside, boys joust with sticks or throw them for a dog, and girls play pirates. Sunlight illuminates the golden leaves that snowed from an apricot tree last weekend. The field across the road is thick with herring gulls, following a plow to snatch earthworms and pocket gophers from the freshly turned earth.

Inside, filled jugs accumulate in neat rows. Two dozen beautiful gallons by just past noon.

For a while - as others prepare the picnic lunch or tend children - the cider crew shrinks to eight: Leon; Dean and Kay; two neighbors who heard the press was in action and brought their apples; Elizabeth and her husband, Mike Miller; and Jachel Firth, 14, who announces that she's done every job except change the bags in the press. Jachel jiggles the grinder box, as she has seen the men do, to dislodge the last of a batch of apples.

In the sunshine, two little pirates show me the treasures they've found - rusty metal, rubber bits and tattered canvas - and assign each a pretend purpose: ink well, heater, pearl necklace, silver pot.

The call to lunch shuts down both pirating and cider pressing. Even Leon leaves the apples to sit with his 86-year-old mother. But before long, somebody's back in the cider shed.

It's Jachel, changing the bags.

Virginia Hutchins writes her occasional column about Westerners off the beaten path. She may be reached at 735-3242 or virginia.hutchins@lee.net.