One man beneath one old straw hat, alone – while berries bloom
genetics picked and bees brought in while patiently he grooms
sixty acres filled with pride, each bush this artist’s joy
now brushed against by buzzing wings as nectars are enjoyed.
Two hundred seeds these bees do feed with pollen laden rumps
so slowly, slowly green to puce each grows a bit more plump
Sun rays warm the fruit to rise, his fingers pluck full grown
He savors his blue prize of life and signs it –“pick your own”.
I rose in the dark, and drove twenty miles, anxious to savor the first of this year’s crop. No other cars yet . Great, I shall be the first. In the quiet of the sunrise, I sought out the only person around. "No," the new farmer explained, as he put down his paint brush, "the longer winter means we won’t pick for another two weeks." With both of us, with time to kill, we walked the fields. I talked of the years I had picked here when the Ryan’s owned the farm. He’d bought it five years ago, but before that he’d worked in Manhattan for thirty years, as he put it, 'saving enough to be able to lose it all in farming here - far from the beaten path.' Since then he tended the soil, blended the varieties, tested out the benefits of different bees, fought disease and learned the value of feather dust. This would be his first crop. Finally his lifelong dream was bearing fruit – or at least it would in two weeks. I blushed at my impatience.
I couldn’t help but notice the color variations on each cluster of fruit as we passed – green, pink, puce. He pointed out examples of berry cup, a disease that shrivels the fruit. I noted the plastic bee hives. “ Local bees are lazy. Each berry has 200 seeds,” he explained. The harder the bees work, the more seeds get pollinated. The more seeds get pollinated, the bigger the berries. Twenty thousand plants, 60 acres, 200 varieties. "$1300 just on honey bees alone – three kinds” he says. " These we bring in from West Virginia.” I laughed to myself considering this new form of migrant worker and thought, “ I guess, if he can work for 35 years, I can wait two more weeks”.
As we grew quiet, he pulled back a branch, offering me first pick. I savored that single berry like none other – watched in slow motion as he savored his, then we headed back. He to his proverbial sign in the barn and me to my ride home all the while considering the wisdom in those words that said more of his life than his fruit – Pick Your Own.
Gold trophy winner
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