Then harvest seasons starts and two, then three, then then four days of the week are consumed with reaping the fruit of Spring’s labor. You put down the hammer and take up the harvest knife. All other projects cease. Planting and harvesting are your life — some weeding if you’re lucky. The days are at their longest. If there is ever a time to be harvesting 1,000+ pounds of cucumbers, tomatoes and squash in the morning, prepping and planting out half mile in the afternoon, it is when there is 16 hours of daylight.
Before you know it, it’s late Summer. The tomatoes start exploding, the cucumbers already are, you’re still planting like crazy and then the melons come in — and just when you think you’ll break, that there isn’t enough time in the day, you scroll down on your crop plan and you see that plantings are nearly done. No more compost spreading; no more bed shaping; greenhouse seedings shrink. You plant the last Fall brassicas in the field, the tractor sits quiet for a minute, and you can spend all day amongst the vines and in the cooler playing Tetris with boxes of Summer fruit.
Then comes the Autumnal Equinox.
The tomatoes are still pumping and the potatoes and winter squash start to die back; the corn fills out, crisps up. The big harvests are coming. Space needs to be cleared. Winter is just around the corner so you need to establish garlic and strawberries for next year; mow and hold over spent beds, lime new fields, and get ready for cover cropping — and just when you think you’ll break, that there isn’t enough time in the shortening days the heat ebbs, the tomatoes start to show signs of slowing down. A light frost will soon roll through the farm. Smiling friends will come to help you harvest your winter squash. Chilling morning air goes down like a draught of ambrosia. You seed the last lettuce of the season. You have a moment sit down and calculate your garlic seed and cover crop order.
All this is why you won’t ever hear a farmer say, “Shucks! Summer is over.” We are greedy for the turnings. We love nothing more than a first harvest. But first tomato harvest glory fades under the weight of tomato crates and we crave cold hands and cozy coats and the crisp snap of the stem of a plump radicchio glowing in morning sun. Lucky for us, when scolding kiddos for running through the corn becomes sad and hackneyed, Autumn comes, and we can yell, “Come! Knock it down! Gather armfuls of cobs!”
Change is our tonic — one of the great sustaining elixirs of farm life.
Soon, Winter will come. It’s so close now we can almost taste it. The rains will fall and we will turn in — to rest, rejuvenation, and internality. We’ll clean up our books, do our taxes; we’ll look back on the year and create next year’s crop plan and next year’s budget. We’ll open CSA sign-ups. We’ll look at spreadsheets, sit, think, build, fix things, and sleep.
But ample sleep turns into insomnia; too much internality into angst. We will get pudgy, our harvest muscles will atrophy, and we will forget for what we are doing out in the wet and the cold — and just when we think we’ll break, that there is too much open-endedness in the too short days, the sun will return. We will hear the Swainson’s Thrush calling us, beckoning us, “Come out! Build it up again! Plant! Turn! Turn! Turn!”
See you in the fields,
David for Kayta, Kate, and Anna
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