I am going to harvest vegetables tomorrow. This is not my normal job. Nor is it something that up past midnight huffing butts playing endlessly with the web prepares me well for. But then, these ‘evenings’ don’t prepare me well for my day job. Or for anything else for that matter …
Nice not to have to care about finding clean pants for work, for I’ll come back covered in mud. Have to remember to bring a change of clothes, though, shaving stuff so I can shower at a friends and cleaned up for the next eight hours at the office.
Tomorrow is the last harvest. Cold enough I’ll have a couple of layers on. Don’t have to worry about mosquitos, though. I stand in the field with a my coffee, watching the sky, smoking. Peaceful in the fields down by the river in the morning. This late in the year the geese have flown, but there are always
crows with their raunchy cries, obviously off to important business
somewhere, seagulls in the mist rising up over the compost heap,
squabbling over breakfast.
Grinding out the butt in the mud with my boot, thinking about how I am the only smoker on the crew, probably the only smoker in this whole agglomeration of farms down on this river valley, a weird mix of organic new age practical back to the land volvo driving duct taped rusted out trucks tractor cap water bottle bearing collection that shows up down here.
It gets to be a bit much, sorting out all these labels, this mind of mine.
I start walking across the field to the crew, some riding in on the back of the farm wagon, stacks of empty plastic totes bouncing as it runs between the beds mostly plowed under for winter rye, totes that will be full of kale, leeks, salad greens, turnips, maybe beets when we head back sometime close to noon. Some kind of farmer walk, hands down loose ready to work. Ploding, striding at the same time, I could walk all day like this, between the tree lines, across the fields, watching the sky.