Yes, spring flower season is over....but the Mr. and I decided, in
We'll set up shop this weekend with all that we raised on our own land---first time pumpkin growers that we are--and hope we sell enough to pay a mortgage or two. Hot cider, anyone?
I still remember June, sitting at the baseball diamond--dusty and parched, when he called to say he was putting the pumpkins in our two bottom fields. So much of farming is now-or-never; he wouldn't make it to the game. That night, while I watched little boys kick up clouds of dirt chasing bases, he made hills in the clay with our old Ford Tractor and a borrowed seeder. At the time October seemed forever away, as far-off as Christmas, or the moon. In the months since, I've stood and stared as the fields went from tidy to overgrown, as the rows he planted by hand disappeared in the green and the wooden stakes differentiating Jarradales from Jacks became dwarfed in our down-home jungle.
In between, I've cussed out a couple hundred cucumber beetles and watched the clouds like tea leaves. Will it rain, will it be too much, will my brow ever not be furrowed? I am smack in the middle of a season in life called Wait. Wait is like autumn, fraught with possibility but lacking the newly-sharpened-pencil smell and paper-bag book covers. We might land on our feet, but then again, we could come down hard--and wrong.
We are doing things we never dreamed we would do in this life, which is beautiful. All this chance and emotion, the flying blind. It takes moxie, am I right?
Speaking of moxie, my dad is riding his bicycle across the state today. Width-wise. I felt I had to clarify that. Joshua dropped them off this morning near the Indiana line. It was cold, he said, but there they went-- off like a couple of teenagers. We talked later about how they might now have enough socks, or the right socks. How Joshua waited near the launching point for a little bit, just in case.
Maybe waiting is always in season. And moxie is knowing the risks, but doing it anyway. Diving in...