The harvest
When I think of fall I think of harvest time. Although I did not grow up on a commercial farm, I did grow up in the country without the modern amenities of electricity and indoor plumbing. Thus, harvest time was often a time for finishing up the caning as well as storing potatoes and other food in the cellar. It was also a time to make sure that there was an ample supply of wood for cooking and heating. By the time the official celebration of Thanksgiving arrived all was ready for whatever winter might bring. In the country, every home had an endless supply of canned vegetables, sometimes chicken or other fowl and whatever fruits had been available that summer. It seemed as if there was a never-ending supply of peaches, cherries, apples, grapes and various berries to make pies for company at home or any community event at which we gathered to break bread together.
Harvest time was also a time to be reminded that one reaped what one sowed. As a child, I did not understand why my Grandmother Fannie, the pastor and some others seemed to feel it necessary to perpetuate this lie. Obviously, no matter what one sowed too much or too little rain, tornadoes, diseases, wild animals and various other visitors determined whether or not one had a harvest. It did not take a genius or a young child to realize that no matter how carefully one sowed and tended or how good the seeds, plants or eyes of potatoes one might or might not have a harvest. The fact that it was a spiritual metaphor would not puncture my brain until I was an adult.
As is Yon Kippur, the day of atonement in the Jewish tradition, harvest time is a time for spiritual renewal. The Christmas lesson of Santa keeping a list to determine who was naughty and nice is a precursor to attempting to teach that the real harvest is acts of kindness, a certain peace within oneself, and a very short list of deeds for which one needs to atone.
There have been many times in my life, such as the early days of the AIDS epidemic and the various wars in which friends have fought, when I have been reminded that what I thought were important rewards for my hard work were often just fluff. What really mattered was how well the deceased and I had taken care of each other – loved each other. The memories which warmed one’s heart on the darkest of winter nights was the real harvest. Having very few “I wished I hads…” provided a comforting quilt as one sat in the rocker with a smiling heart.
Other than herbs, here in the city I am not preserving goods to feed all who are present in this home over the winter months. I will make my daily trips to the Green Grocer, Aldi’s, Kroger’s and possibly the farmers market. I will use the store-bought fruits to make pies while the pot roast slowly melds with the dried herbs. I will still get out the company dishes and silver, the cloth napkins and arrange the flowers of rich fall colors to welcome honored guests as we share the love which is the fruit of our labor – of what we have sown.
Our harvest is the fruit of laugher, hard work, and community.
574 words
Written October 4, 2017
When I think of fall I think of harvest time. Although I did not grow up on a commercial farm, I did grow up in the country without the modern amenities of electricity and indoor plumbing. Thus, harvest time was often a time for finishing up the caning as well as storing potatoes and other food in the cellar. It was also a time to make sure that there was an ample supply of wood for cooking and heating. By the time the official celebration of Thanksgiving arrived all was ready for whatever winter might bring. In the country, every home had an endless supply of canned vegetables, sometimes chicken or other fowl and whatever fruits had been available that summer. It seemed as if there was a never-ending supply of peaches, cherries, apples, grapes and various berries to make pies for company at home or any community event at which we gathered to break bread together.
Harvest time was also a time to be reminded that one reaped what one sowed. As a child, I did not understand why my Grandmother Fannie, the pastor and some others seemed to feel it necessary to perpetuate this lie. Obviously, no matter what one sowed too much or too little rain, tornadoes, diseases, wild animals and various other visitors determined whether or not one had a harvest. It did not take a genius or a young child to realize that no matter how carefully one sowed and tended or how good the seeds, plants or eyes of potatoes one might or might not have a harvest. The fact that it was a spiritual metaphor would not puncture my brain until I was an adult.
As is Yon Kippur, the day of atonement in the Jewish tradition, harvest time is a time for spiritual renewal. The Christmas lesson of Santa keeping a list to determine who was naughty and nice is a precursor to attempting to teach that the real harvest is acts of kindness, a certain peace within oneself, and a very short list of deeds for which one needs to atone.
There have been many times in my life, such as the early days of the AIDS epidemic and the various wars in which friends have fought, when I have been reminded that what I thought were important rewards for my hard work were often just fluff. What really mattered was how well the deceased and I had taken care of each other – loved each other. The memories which warmed one’s heart on the darkest of winter nights was the real harvest. Having very few “I wished I hads…” provided a comforting quilt as one sat in the rocker with a smiling heart.
Other than herbs, here in the city I am not preserving goods to feed all who are present in this home over the winter months. I will make my daily trips to the Green Grocer, Aldi’s, Kroger’s and possibly the farmers market. I will use the store-bought fruits to make pies while the pot roast slowly melds with the dried herbs. I will still get out the company dishes and silver, the cloth napkins and arrange the flowers of rich fall colors to welcome honored guests as we share the love which is the fruit of our labor – of what we have sown.
Our harvest is the fruit of laugher, hard work, and community.
574 words
Written October 4, 2017
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