My grandmother puckers her lips from side to side as she surveys the cards; her thin hands slide gently over the calico oilcloth, wrinkling to and fro as she fingers the familiar objects of her life. Her husband shuffles in and pinches her loose cheek before returning to the balcony. I have long tired of this game but it is the only pastime that makes sense. She doesn't understand any part of my life: why I would travel anywhere in Europe other than to her industrial hometown; why I eat pork and beef while my mother rejected it for decades; why I knit and shower every day; why I don't need my underwear ironed; why I would study biology or plants or writing; why I have a dog, or tend a garden.
I draw ounces of courage from the far corners of my skin and heart (the emotional distance is an aching in my chest): "When did you move here?"
The card game disintegrates.
The harvest begins with a single ear of corn: shucking awkwardly reveals pearls of periwinkle and goldenrod kernels. It was just a few years before my mother was born, the last child. Stuck with a sour inlaw in a shattered, German, post-war town, they fled to the city where her husband would get work in the factory.
I fumble less with the next question, and the kernels spill out in every direction, filling the static apartment with fear, and love, and hunger. They are simple stories, but they are all inside of her. She has loved, but is cold from someplace inside. The questions break her open, and my grandfather cries a little, later on, when he comes in from the balcony, filling in the blanks.
The connection is sparse, but I learned how to husk.
Just in time.
Harvest: 09.27.2013
The thick golden tendrils of her hair were bound back in a low ponytail and braided to the ends then bound again. She walked the halls a look of unknown excitement in her glazed over eyes as she watched the busy birthing center nurses tend to ladies and babies. Other mothers-to-be clutching swollen fronts in painful anticipation to the initial meeting of their new spawn.
The golden braid bobbed to and fro. Her eyes stayed focused on the task at hand. It was time for harvesting. She knew she would have to do this, and was often told that all things will come to an end in the pain and suffering of life. In acceptance of this way of life she knew the harvest would draw near and her duty would be her utmost responsibility.
Eyes ever diligent on the halls. She was keeping track of the faces and trying to guess when each face might produce their own offspring. Feigning contraction she would stop every so often so as to not draw attention to the obviously painless labor she was enduring. The pain was never physical for her, however after several years of living here and learning about the intricacies of life she grew fond of the race she had studied for centuries. Each time this task was bestowed upon her her heart sank a little more knowing that these women truly loved what was growing, living and soon to be breathing from within them.
She did her best to shake herself of these thoughts and focused on the labor of her work. Walking, really marching, up and down. Refusing help when asked. Politely talking to family members of other laborers, and wondering how they fared. How far into the process they were. Eager to share with any person with a lending ear they often readily gave the exact information she needed. It usually rang to the tune of “oh she's about 6 cm now”, or “this is our second baby, we hope its a girl”...so on and so forth.
Today she chose an olive toned woman with hair that cascaded in dark ringlets down her face. Perspiration and tears saturated her skin. Her cheeks were flush with the coming. Her name was Gaia according to the chart hanging from the front of the door. Her partner, Abigail, ran to and from the kitchenette to fetch ice chips and whatever else Gaia asked for. Yes, the time was close indeed.
Finally the moments that followed produced the sounds of life and the cries of victory. Once the two mothers had their fill of staring into their newborn’s face for the first time, Gaia asked her to go make the long list of phone calls to alert family and friends of the arrival of the new life in her arms. Abigail moved the babe to the bassinet and encouraged her wife to get some rest. Once confirmed that Abigail was in the thick of the task assigned and the nurses were done tending to the mending and cleaning of Gaia she descended upon the room.
Entering silently she only allowed Gaia to know she was there by sound of the door closing. Gaia looked up at her slightly confused and with a questioning look about her. The door was locked and she smiled as she walked closer to Gaia’s hospital bed. As Gaia reached for the call button as she with the golden braid moved it aside out of reach as she had done to dozens of new mothers before.
“Your gift will ensure the safety of humankind. We are grateful to you and take this life as a continuation of the contract of peace.”
Gaia still very unsure as to the goings on of the current moment and quite groggy watched as the unfamiliar woman walk closer to her baby.
The one with the golden braid walked steadily to the sleeping baby. Gingerly she picked it up and nestled it into the cradle of her arms and rested the sweet sleeper on her belly. Looking up into the suddenly horrified Gaia’s face she thanked her once more as she walked over to the only window in the room. She slid it open and in one fluid motion she pounced upon the window sill, and as if the embodiment of a snake, she unhinged her jaw and swallowed the newborn whole.
Gaia unable to speak, shook at the thought of what she just witnessed. Braid still swaying from the fast action. Jaw still foot wide and slack she skewed her face into some form of a smile as her tongue fell loosely out of the gaping hole of a mouth and bound out of the window.
The contract of peace was fulfilled another day and Earth would be safe, until the next time.
Harvest 09.26.2013
“C'mon,” you urged, pulling the door shut and waving me to follow, “I'll show you the orchard.”
Our boots crunched through the icy grass as we climbed a hill laced with hibernating blueberry bushes. Birds fluttered on the ground beneath them, unearthing the dregs of withered fruit.
A dozen rows of trees stood tall at the top of the hill, sparkling like diamonds as the frost loosened and dripped from their leaves. “Cortlands to the left, Macs to the right. And these,” you said, pulling a pink apple from a low hanging branch and shining it on your flannel, “are the Honey Crisps.” We each grabbed a stack of bushel baskets and started plucking.
We had nearly cleared the closest Honey Crisp tree before you spoke again. Hesitantly, you confided “Russ and I are having problems. I don't think we're going to make it.” The way your voice shook, I knew this was the first time you had dared to utter these truths out loud.
We spent the rest of the day with our backs against that tree on the edge of the orchard, guiltlessly eating our way through the two bushels we had managed to fill. The birds, who had followed us from the blueberry bushes, swooped to clean our discarded cores. Your crying turned to laughter, then to crying again, then to laughter, as you worked through all of the emotions you had held in for so long.
“Whatever happens, I think it's going to be okay,” you finally said as the sun started to sink. “I think I'm going to be okay.”
“I know you are.”
With that, I pulled you to your feet and kissed your cheek before starting to pick the ripest apples from the next tree.
That night, we tossed a few logs into the wood stove, curled up on the couch with our cold toes tucked under fleece blankets, and dug into one fresh apple pie with two forks. “Good harvest,” you said, grinning.
“Yea,” I agreed with a smirk. “Maybe tomorrow we can actually pick fruit.”
Harvest: 09.25.13
Autumn, in 13 Run-On Sentences
1.
The steam rises
thick and dripping
the sweat of Putting By
and I have to tell myself
a hundred times
I will be glad of this long night
come the bitter cold of February
the effort is worth the reward
the effort is worth the reward
the Harvest mantra
I close my eyes
and I cannot picture what I am preparing for
I don't see the duck tracks in the snow
I don't see the long spears of ice hanging from the roof
and that's okay
it is not yet February, after all
my little world now is golden
is russet
is burnt orange and cranberry red
is fire
is ochre and beeswax
is warmth
and glowing
is gifts from the earth
and songs
of busy-ness
of industry and fortification
of harmony
of buzzing and humming
for now, right now
all are Days for Doing, days that Rabbit would like
I like them, too.
1.
The steam rises
thick and dripping
the sweat of Putting By
and I have to tell myself
a hundred times
I will be glad of this long night
come the bitter cold of February
the effort is worth the reward
the effort is worth the reward
the Harvest mantra
I close my eyes
and I cannot picture what I am preparing for
I don't see the duck tracks in the snow
I don't see the long spears of ice hanging from the roof
and that's okay
it is not yet February, after all
my little world now is golden
is russet
is burnt orange and cranberry red
is fire
is ochre and beeswax
is warmth
and glowing
is gifts from the earth
and songs
of busy-ness
of industry and fortification
of harmony
of buzzing and humming
for now, right now
all are Days for Doing, days that Rabbit would like
I like them, too.
Harvest: 09.24.2013
Fall is my favorite time of year. Gone are the oppressive days of summer. My lungs can finally breath freely without feeling like I am under some immense weight. The end of summer is like the wakening from a feverish, fitful sleep.
Every year I take in all this season has to teach me. This year, I feel I need the lesson more so.
I watch as the leaves turn celebratory colors. Oranges and reds announce the end of time on their tree. Soon they will let go and silently dance their way to the foot of their beloved home. They will lie there, together, decomposing. The leaves are not sad to go and the tree is not sad to let go. The colors they show in celebration are of a new beginning. Without their demise the tree would not have the nutrients it needs to grow new leaves come spring. There is no end. No beginning. It is a cycle with each precious piece dependent on the other.
A leaf falls to my lap. I look at how beautiful it is and think of all the other leaves that went into this beauty. How many does it take to supply the tree with enough food? Ultimately, the number doesn't matter. It takes all of them. However many that might be.
I realize that I found the lesson I needed. I need to let go. Let go of fear and of anger. I need to have faith that I am part of something bigger. There is no end, no beginning, just a continuation of what has always been and what will always be.
Gone are the oppressive days of summer. My lungs can finally breathe freely. I have awoken to the bountiful harvest of fall and feel like a better me.
Every year I take in all this season has to teach me. This year, I feel I need the lesson more so.
I watch as the leaves turn celebratory colors. Oranges and reds announce the end of time on their tree. Soon they will let go and silently dance their way to the foot of their beloved home. They will lie there, together, decomposing. The leaves are not sad to go and the tree is not sad to let go. The colors they show in celebration are of a new beginning. Without their demise the tree would not have the nutrients it needs to grow new leaves come spring. There is no end. No beginning. It is a cycle with each precious piece dependent on the other.
A leaf falls to my lap. I look at how beautiful it is and think of all the other leaves that went into this beauty. How many does it take to supply the tree with enough food? Ultimately, the number doesn't matter. It takes all of them. However many that might be.
I realize that I found the lesson I needed. I need to let go. Let go of fear and of anger. I need to have faith that I am part of something bigger. There is no end, no beginning, just a continuation of what has always been and what will always be.
Gone are the oppressive days of summer. My lungs can finally breathe freely. I have awoken to the bountiful harvest of fall and feel like a better me.
Harvest: 9.23.2013
I sit in the cold arena, the cold air nipping at my skin. I've pulled out my fleece and my Uggs. It’s that time again. Time for Hockey, time for soccer. It’s time for apples and everything "appley" you can think of: pies, tarts, muffins, stuffing, apple sauce, crisp, dumplings, donuts, cider, and even wine. It’s time for pumpkins and carving. It’s time for football. It’s time for Crockpot meals and all the comfort foods you can think of.
It’s time for leaf piles and jumping. It’s time for late afternoon fires and an ice cold beer. It’s time for trick or treating and making scarecrows. It’s time for the geese to fly south with that beautiful V. It’s time for wood stoves and movies. It’s time for family. It's time for board games and Pictionary.
It’s time for the colors; scarlet red, burnt orange, vibrant yellow, and of course some ever green and brown for good measure. It’s time for bright blue skies with soft winds. It's time for Halloween and Thanksgiving. It's time to celebrate everything that is special to us and our families.
It’s my time… My favorite time… It’s time to slow down from summer, enjoy the Harvest and take part in fall. It’s my most favorite time of all… Fall. I wouldn't want to spend it anywhere else except here in New England where fall is at it’s best.
Harvest: 9.22.2013
The yellowing foliage falls down from the trees, piling on top of last years unraked leaves. The fresh memories of picking blueberries in July fades as the cool air of autumn invades the space of my home, the memories chilling my bones more than the crisp weather.
The daily chit chat turns from talks of what music festivals will be attended to getting the last of the artichokes at the farm stand, and how many tomatoes shall I can to get me through the winter.
Preparation is at its peak as we hope to keep ourselves warm and fat through the lean bleak gray days that come ahead. I try to take in as much of the color as possible, though the rain deadens their bright September offerings all too early, giving the greens, golds, reds, and magentas a browning dullness.
I'm too busy trying to stay afloat with packing to move, preserving food, preserving sanity, and earning money to enjoy the changeover completely. With a heart heavily bent on change, my emotional summer is quieting down and my spirit mirrors the leaves. The most beautiful time of year skipping its own evolution of color and simply shifting to drooping burnt leaf.
I sit clipping my personal harvest of the summer's offerings that I helped to bring forth from the earth. I have hours to reflect on my hope in seeing the bright colors. It remains strong, though it resides in the smallest corner of my heart and mind. My eyes must not be my only guide in this hope. Faith lies in feeling the clean, crisp night air brushing my ill-outfitted skin, in the sounds of the gray fox crying for a mate before winter in my front yard, in the completion of my nervously grown harvest I hope to get me through winter, in the chipmunk's scavenging scurry through the brush, and in the fact that I get to try again next time we circle around the sun.
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