On the road again, after 3 deliciously sedentary months hanging out on Edgewood Drive. These past few days, Gale and I (and the dogonmylap) have been here in Bigfork, Montana. During recent weeks, a happy triad of events conspired to pull us east across smoky central Washington and the upper reaches of Idaho's panhandle, to pause a peaceful while here on the northeast shoulder of enormous Flathead Lake.
The germ of the trip was a mid-summer chat with our long-time friends Bob & Suzanne about where we might roadtrip together. Next, we received a wedding invitation from one of Gale's dear cousins. Her first-born was to be married on the banks of the Swan River, just outside the town of Bigfork, on September 29. From there, the plot continued to thicken.
One afternoon in early July, I grabbed the phone and called one of my cousins. Howard and I had been out of touch for years, and I wasn't even sure the old number I had would still work. He picked up. It was his 75th birthday, I quickly learned. Almost as quickly, I managed to pass off my aberrant, out-of-the-blue phonecall as--of course--a Happy Birthday bugle. And thereby hangs the third inspiration for our Montana journey. We're heading through Missoula and Butte on Thursday for a rendezvous with him. He's lived his entire life in Southwest Montana, in the same Rocky Mountain foothills where my Mom herded cattle and tended the turkey flock on her grandmother's ranch, while his mother baked the bread and cooked 3-squares-a-day for the outdoor hands. We share some of the same roots, but his run particularly deep in this fertile ground.
As I type, Suzanne, Bob and Gale are off in the touristy section of town, browsing galleries, checking the reduced prices on properties displayed in real estate office windows, and sniffing-out anything chocolate. I and the dogonmylap stayed "home" (in the lovely condo Gale found for us on-line last month), to stare at the open laptop staring back at us. Re-kindling this blog has been feeling like a chore up until now. . . one I didn't want to tackle in the flurry of getting from one spot on the map to the next and soaking-up the warmth of this "unusually dry" Montana autumn. It feels good to be back. Back in territory that runs deep in my history. . . and back here on this page.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Home at Last
We were all happy to be home, this time last week.
Some minor jetlag the first couple days made it easy for Gale and me to start leaning towards bed around sunset. Being able and willing to rise a couple hours earlier than normal is a good summer habit. What would Mr Franklin say? Something about healthy, wealthy and wise? We do feel a smidgen healthier and maybe even wiser for what I suspect will be a short-lived practice. . . but the "wealthy" part is eclipsed by our current American Express and Visa statements.
I once again actually have a dogonmylap, as I type this. Charlie survived his extended stay at Susie's Country Inn admirably. Susie says he experienced some withdrawal symptoms at first, from not having a receptive lap available to him on-demand, but all indicators suggest he was treated kindly, attentively, and according to our--- OK, my--- detailed instructions. Once he started taking advantage of his networking opps during his several daily playtimes with the other guests, he reportedly snapped out of his funk.
To our relief, though, he did recognize us when he saw us waiting for him in the lobby on pick-up day, and he appeared to be glad to see us. Who knew he could do cartwheels and mid-air somersaults like that? And that was while we were still in the parking lot, trying to corral him for the ride home. So far, we've noticed only two bad habits he's picked up at "camp." He barks for our attention, now. . . as opposed to sitting politely and gazing at us until we notice him. And country-western is his new music-of-choice on the radio. Could be worse.
Word from the Rocky Point Blueberry Farm, back on the right-hand coast, is that the crop on those well-tied and neatly-netted berries is ripening, at last. Their u-pick season begins tomorrow! Our two bushes here in the backyard are a bit behind, given that Rocky Point is a few latitude degrees further down the globe and few temperature degrees further up the thermometer. But I'm keeping my eye on our robins as they keep their beady eyes on our berries. No need to advertise to them when the u-pick season begins.
Regardless of this schizy NW weather, the jungle of weeds out back that were pretty-much under control when we left, the laundry, and the deficit of stamina and strength we're both feeling with our re-entry visits to the gym, it is wonderful to be back in the comfort and peace of our own home. I am by no means the passenger who barks for the flight attendant's attention or the guest who demands Josh Turner or Reba on the radio, when others around me might prefer Yoyo Ma. But neither am I a smiley-faced, hunky-dorey traveler. I almost always enjoy my destinations, and this trip was certainly no exception. But on this trip--on several fronts--"getting there" was nowhere near "half the fun." Who came up with that fetid drop of "wisdom," anyway? Certainly not Mr. Franklin.
Next post, at the risk of branding myself a boring, backyard chauveinist slug, I'll belabor what's not to like about traveling.
Some minor jetlag the first couple days made it easy for Gale and me to start leaning towards bed around sunset. Being able and willing to rise a couple hours earlier than normal is a good summer habit. What would Mr Franklin say? Something about healthy, wealthy and wise? We do feel a smidgen healthier and maybe even wiser for what I suspect will be a short-lived practice. . . but the "wealthy" part is eclipsed by our current American Express and Visa statements.
I once again actually have a dogonmylap, as I type this. Charlie survived his extended stay at Susie's Country Inn admirably. Susie says he experienced some withdrawal symptoms at first, from not having a receptive lap available to him on-demand, but all indicators suggest he was treated kindly, attentively, and according to our--- OK, my--- detailed instructions. Once he started taking advantage of his networking opps during his several daily playtimes with the other guests, he reportedly snapped out of his funk.
To our relief, though, he did recognize us when he saw us waiting for him in the lobby on pick-up day, and he appeared to be glad to see us. Who knew he could do cartwheels and mid-air somersaults like that? And that was while we were still in the parking lot, trying to corral him for the ride home. So far, we've noticed only two bad habits he's picked up at "camp." He barks for our attention, now. . . as opposed to sitting politely and gazing at us until we notice him. And country-western is his new music-of-choice on the radio. Could be worse.
Word from the Rocky Point Blueberry Farm, back on the right-hand coast, is that the crop on those well-tied and neatly-netted berries is ripening, at last. Their u-pick season begins tomorrow! Our two bushes here in the backyard are a bit behind, given that Rocky Point is a few latitude degrees further down the globe and few temperature degrees further up the thermometer. But I'm keeping my eye on our robins as they keep their beady eyes on our berries. No need to advertise to them when the u-pick season begins.
Regardless of this schizy NW weather, the jungle of weeds out back that were pretty-much under control when we left, the laundry, and the deficit of stamina and strength we're both feeling with our re-entry visits to the gym, it is wonderful to be back in the comfort and peace of our own home. I am by no means the passenger who barks for the flight attendant's attention or the guest who demands Josh Turner or Reba on the radio, when others around me might prefer Yoyo Ma. But neither am I a smiley-faced, hunky-dorey traveler. I almost always enjoy my destinations, and this trip was certainly no exception. But on this trip--on several fronts--"getting there" was nowhere near "half the fun." Who came up with that fetid drop of "wisdom," anyway? Certainly not Mr. Franklin.
Next post, at the risk of branding myself a boring, backyard chauveinist slug, I'll belabor what's not to like about traveling.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
City Highlights
The Big Apple, the Asphalt Jungle, the City that Never Sleeps, the Melting Pot. Huddled masses and teeming shores. It's all been said about NYC. We were only there for a scant 24 hours, but it was enough time to get a surface sense of the place. It's aMAZing.
It's a city of hyperbole: over the top glitz and excess. The best of everything---food and fashion, art and architecture, cult and culture.
It's a city of extremes: From the ethereal to the visceral. From the silly to the sublime. From the Midnight Cowboys to the Holly Golightlies. From the anonymous waves of blank-faces expertly side-stepping you on the street to the no-apologies rubbing-of-elbows (and other body parts) on the subway.
It's a city of contradictions: Neon versus shadow. Wealth versus squalor. Breath-taking, drop-your-jaw beauty from a distance versus turn-your-stomach grime and spittle at your feet. Spotless, freshly-pressed Brooks Bros suit versus torn t-shirt and paint-stained jeans, side-by-side at the corner of 42nd St and MadisonAve, waiting for the light to change.
In our short time there, several negative stereotypes were neatly dispelled. For one, NYC residents are not mean or particularly cranky. They may be busy, worried, or hungry. They have bad days like we all do. But without exception, each person we had occasion to speak with was polite, helpful, and even friendly sometimes.
Highlights of our first visit: Enjoying a wonderful dinner with friends in their vintage Brooklyn red-brick row-house, complete with stoop. (Think the cover of "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.") Walking west across the Brooklyn Bridge as lower Manhattan revels in the morning sun. Lunch at Grand Central. A surprise performance by two talented, acrobatic, break-dancing young men in the aisle during a 3-minute subway ride. Getting lost in the marble corridors of the 101-year-old New York Public Library and then finally emerging into the vast and glorious expanse of its famous reading room.
I'm not sure I'll ever be able to tolerate the place for more than a couple days at a time--I'm too accustomed to the wide-open, quiet spaces of home (and this peaceful R.I. blueberry farm). But we will return, now that we've learned a few ropes. Some must-see items on our next visit(s) include many of the usual things: the Museum of Natural History, MOMA, the Smithsonian, the Empire State Building, Central Park, the infamous sidewalk in front of The Dakota, Rupert's Hello Deli, and the diner where Harry had that famously informative lunch with Sally. Then there's Broadway. . . . . . . . but we may have to start buying lottery tickets before we do that trip.
This may be the last post this trip until we're home. Thanks to all of you who were able and willing to add comments--- I know several of you tried but were confounded by this quirky Googly program.
Happy Father's Day, everyone!
It's a city of hyperbole: over the top glitz and excess. The best of everything---food and fashion, art and architecture, cult and culture.
It's a city of extremes: From the ethereal to the visceral. From the silly to the sublime. From the Midnight Cowboys to the Holly Golightlies. From the anonymous waves of blank-faces expertly side-stepping you on the street to the no-apologies rubbing-of-elbows (and other body parts) on the subway.
It's a city of contradictions: Neon versus shadow. Wealth versus squalor. Breath-taking, drop-your-jaw beauty from a distance versus turn-your-stomach grime and spittle at your feet. Spotless, freshly-pressed Brooks Bros suit versus torn t-shirt and paint-stained jeans, side-by-side at the corner of 42nd St and MadisonAve, waiting for the light to change.In our short time there, several negative stereotypes were neatly dispelled. For one, NYC residents are not mean or particularly cranky. They may be busy, worried, or hungry. They have bad days like we all do. But without exception, each person we had occasion to speak with was polite, helpful, and even friendly sometimes.
Highlights of our first visit: Enjoying a wonderful dinner with friends in their vintage Brooklyn red-brick row-house, complete with stoop. (Think the cover of "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.") Walking west across the Brooklyn Bridge as lower Manhattan revels in the morning sun. Lunch at Grand Central. A surprise performance by two talented, acrobatic, break-dancing young men in the aisle during a 3-minute subway ride. Getting lost in the marble corridors of the 101-year-old New York Public Library and then finally emerging into the vast and glorious expanse of its famous reading room. 
I'm not sure I'll ever be able to tolerate the place for more than a couple days at a time--I'm too accustomed to the wide-open, quiet spaces of home (and this peaceful R.I. blueberry farm). But we will return, now that we've learned a few ropes. Some must-see items on our next visit(s) include many of the usual things: the Museum of Natural History, MOMA, the Smithsonian, the Empire State Building, Central Park, the infamous sidewalk in front of The Dakota, Rupert's Hello Deli, and the diner where Harry had that famously informative lunch with Sally. Then there's Broadway. . . . . . . . but we may have to start buying lottery tickets before we do that trip.This may be the last post this trip until we're home. Thanks to all of you who were able and willing to add comments--- I know several of you tried but were confounded by this quirky Googly program.
Happy Father's Day, everyone!
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Brave New Worlds
The Congregational Church began in 1592, when a few independent thinkers decided to defy Henry VIII and divorce themselves from the Church of England. I've gathered they were a feisty, foolhardy lot, since in those days the only way to successfully form your own church was to get the heck out of England. They tried Holland for a while, but a small band of them eventually chose a piece of southern Massachusetts coastline as their safe haven. They named their earliest settlement Plymouth. We know them now as The Pilgrims.
In 1641, about 20 years after the Mayflower's voyage, Rev. Samuel Newman shepherded a group of Congregationalists from Weymouth, England across the pond to join Plymouth Colony. A couple years later, they headed inland into the wilderness, and purchased about 8 sq miles from Massasoit, the local native chief, in what's now East Providence, RI.
Newman's band named their new settlement Rehoboth, and, of course, they established a church there in 1643. Among Rev. Newman's followers were widow Elizabeth Browne Walker and her 15-yr-old son, Philip---my 7th great grandfather. Philip became an upstanding member of his community, and when he died in 1679, he was buried in a tract of land adjacent to the church.
Tuesday, we walked that historic cemetery, searching for Philip's grave, which Joe located after a diligent search. His grave has two markers-- the original crudely-chiseled one that was unearthed by a plow in the 1870s, and a more elaborate memorial headstone (behind the original in the photo) that was erected when the old one came to light. Running my hand over that 333-yr-old slab of granite gave me pause, to say the least.
We also traipsed among various Bowens and Ides and Kents, looking for the graves of Philip's son Samuel, his grandson Peter, and his great-grandson Moses. (We knew they were all there b/c findagrave.com says they are!) When I came upon Moses, my 4th great g'father, I stood for a moment in front of his headstone and pondered the wonders of the 80 years he lived, from 1726 to 1806. He witnessed and fully supported the Revolution, and his younger brother Lt. Aaron Walker (whose grave lay a few feet away) was a militiaman killed at the Boston Siege in October 1775. That winter, in January of '76, Moses and his wife added a 13th child to their brood and they named the infant after his Uncle Aaron. This younger Aaron-- my 4th grt g'father-- was the first of my line of Walkers to eventually relocate further west. He settled in Iowa and fathered Sarah, who would become my mother's paternal great grandmother.
In their fledgling days as a separatist group in the early 1600s, the Congregationalists were radical thinkers. Their way of worshiping emphasized the right and responsibility of each properly organized congregation to determine its own affairs, without having to submit these decisions to the judgment of any higher human authority, such as popes and kings. They championed such fringey notions as abolition, women's suffrage, and a strange idea they called "universal salvation." They founded many of our more progressive Northeastern universities and colleges, including Harvard, Yale, Dartmouth, Bowdoin, Middlebury and Amherst. Later, as they drifted into our present-day Midwest, they established Carleton, Grinnel and Oberlin.
I have been aware of these deep roots of mine for only about two years. My mother died in 2006 with no clue of her remarkable heritage. It's one thing to know that "my people" were among the first Europeans to brave this New World--- come hell, high water, or native resistance to their increasing and multiplying. (There are probably several million of us today who claim that distinction.) It's yet another to know that-- not being a church-going sort myself-- the Pilgrims were in many ways "my kind of people." I share with them a love for academic freedom and social justice. And maybe it's thanks to their actually doing something proactive for themselves in the face of some serious religious persecution that I tend to root for the brow-beaten and the underdog today.
Tomorrow Gale and I are hopping the bus to NewYork City! Just for a quick overnight, and dinner with an old college friend of G's. Wish us luck in our first visit to the Big Apple, especially regarding our attempts to navigate the subway system from Penn Station to Brooklyn. Our own brave new world.
In 1641, about 20 years after the Mayflower's voyage, Rev. Samuel Newman shepherded a group of Congregationalists from Weymouth, England across the pond to join Plymouth Colony. A couple years later, they headed inland into the wilderness, and purchased about 8 sq miles from Massasoit, the local native chief, in what's now East Providence, RI.
Newman's band named their new settlement Rehoboth, and, of course, they established a church there in 1643. Among Rev. Newman's followers were widow Elizabeth Browne Walker and her 15-yr-old son, Philip---my 7th great grandfather. Philip became an upstanding member of his community, and when he died in 1679, he was buried in a tract of land adjacent to the church.
Tuesday, we walked that historic cemetery, searching for Philip's grave, which Joe located after a diligent search. His grave has two markers-- the original crudely-chiseled one that was unearthed by a plow in the 1870s, and a more elaborate memorial headstone (behind the original in the photo) that was erected when the old one came to light. Running my hand over that 333-yr-old slab of granite gave me pause, to say the least.
We also traipsed among various Bowens and Ides and Kents, looking for the graves of Philip's son Samuel, his grandson Peter, and his great-grandson Moses. (We knew they were all there b/c findagrave.com says they are!) When I came upon Moses, my 4th great g'father, I stood for a moment in front of his headstone and pondered the wonders of the 80 years he lived, from 1726 to 1806. He witnessed and fully supported the Revolution, and his younger brother Lt. Aaron Walker (whose grave lay a few feet away) was a militiaman killed at the Boston Siege in October 1775. That winter, in January of '76, Moses and his wife added a 13th child to their brood and they named the infant after his Uncle Aaron. This younger Aaron-- my 4th grt g'father-- was the first of my line of Walkers to eventually relocate further west. He settled in Iowa and fathered Sarah, who would become my mother's paternal great grandmother. In their fledgling days as a separatist group in the early 1600s, the Congregationalists were radical thinkers. Their way of worshiping emphasized the right and responsibility of each properly organized congregation to determine its own affairs, without having to submit these decisions to the judgment of any higher human authority, such as popes and kings. They championed such fringey notions as abolition, women's suffrage, and a strange idea they called "universal salvation." They founded many of our more progressive Northeastern universities and colleges, including Harvard, Yale, Dartmouth, Bowdoin, Middlebury and Amherst. Later, as they drifted into our present-day Midwest, they established Carleton, Grinnel and Oberlin.
I have been aware of these deep roots of mine for only about two years. My mother died in 2006 with no clue of her remarkable heritage. It's one thing to know that "my people" were among the first Europeans to brave this New World--- come hell, high water, or native resistance to their increasing and multiplying. (There are probably several million of us today who claim that distinction.) It's yet another to know that-- not being a church-going sort myself-- the Pilgrims were in many ways "my kind of people." I share with them a love for academic freedom and social justice. And maybe it's thanks to their actually doing something proactive for themselves in the face of some serious religious persecution that I tend to root for the brow-beaten and the underdog today.
Tomorrow Gale and I are hopping the bus to NewYork City! Just for a quick overnight, and dinner with an old college friend of G's. Wish us luck in our first visit to the Big Apple, especially regarding our attempts to navigate the subway system from Penn Station to Brooklyn. Our own brave new world.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Up Close and Personal
Most folks know a blueberry bush when they see one. But few get to know the creature as intimately as I have this past week. Been spending hours a day in their company, wrangling branches that have sprawled across the aisles between rows, positioning small clusters of immature berries so they get optimal sun exposure, and generally tidying-up. Bush-by-bush, branch-by-branch. High overhead, low to the ground. Berkeley, Bluecrop, Nelson, Blue Ray. Regardless of the particular cultivar, such in-your-face familiarity with a plant breeds a fondness for it that follows you home, back up the path to dinner.
Sounds crazy, and maybe it's more to-do with working in the hot sun and having plenty of time out there to think your own thoughts, but I've discovered some sensual pleasures in the art of tying a bush. I didn't notice the scent of the leaves for a while. But plunging your face into a thicket of new growth awakens you to the rich musky essence of the plant. Dangling clumps of berries tickle your ears. And all around there is the stillness of being alone with the bushes-- even though Gale or Rhonda may be working the other end of the aisle, just a row or two to the east.
If vacation may be defined as a change-of-pace break from routines, this is it. I am forced to move slowly and methodically.
I strategically eyeball each connecting point for a support before pulling an appropriate length of twine from my pocket and snipping it with my scissors. Then I loop and knot, lift and stretch, then loop and knot on the receiving branch, while watching out for tender new shoots and fragile fruit that can easily be crushed beneath the twine when I pull it tight. Such mindful work forces uncharacteristic patience in me--- a steady, one-step-at-a-time approach to a task that I rarely permit myself at home. When it's break time or the end of the workday, the meditative state I've slipped into is interrupted when Joe clangs the cast iron bell at the shed and calls us in.
Today we're heading into Providence to visit a few ancestors interred in the historic Newman Cemetery. Several generations of Walkers are of Pilgrim origin, dating to the mid-1600s. So far, I'm only acquainted with them via ancestry.com, so I'm looking forward to a more tangible connection. In addition to being weavers, deacons, poets, constables and soldiers, they were all stewards of the land they settled. Methinks they grew blueberries.
Sounds crazy, and maybe it's more to-do with working in the hot sun and having plenty of time out there to think your own thoughts, but I've discovered some sensual pleasures in the art of tying a bush. I didn't notice the scent of the leaves for a while. But plunging your face into a thicket of new growth awakens you to the rich musky essence of the plant. Dangling clumps of berries tickle your ears. And all around there is the stillness of being alone with the bushes-- even though Gale or Rhonda may be working the other end of the aisle, just a row or two to the east.
If vacation may be defined as a change-of-pace break from routines, this is it. I am forced to move slowly and methodically. I strategically eyeball each connecting point for a support before pulling an appropriate length of twine from my pocket and snipping it with my scissors. Then I loop and knot, lift and stretch, then loop and knot on the receiving branch, while watching out for tender new shoots and fragile fruit that can easily be crushed beneath the twine when I pull it tight. Such mindful work forces uncharacteristic patience in me--- a steady, one-step-at-a-time approach to a task that I rarely permit myself at home. When it's break time or the end of the workday, the meditative state I've slipped into is interrupted when Joe clangs the cast iron bell at the shed and calls us in.
Today we're heading into Providence to visit a few ancestors interred in the historic Newman Cemetery. Several generations of Walkers are of Pilgrim origin, dating to the mid-1600s. So far, I'm only acquainted with them via ancestry.com, so I'm looking forward to a more tangible connection. In addition to being weavers, deacons, poets, constables and soldiers, they were all stewards of the land they settled. Methinks they grew blueberries.
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Will Work for Blueberries
Welcome to the re-birth of Dogonmylap. . . the second edition of my sometimes travel blog (without the dog on my lap, this time.)We're here in Warwick R.I. for two weeks with our niece Rhonda and her partner Joe. They have purchased an 8.5 acre farm at Rocky Point on Warwick Neck--a knuckle of land protruding into one of the northernmost fingers of Narragansett Bay. This will be R and J's first season as the new proprietors of Rocky Point (U-Pick) Blueberry Farm.
About 2 acres of this beautifully preserved blanket of greenspace supports over 2200 well-established blueberry bushes. I walk down the path leading from the house through the hardwood forest, and emerge into a sun-drenched clearing. Taller-than-I-am bushes stretch away in all directions, reaching to the property's edge. The several varieties of bushes are laden with berries. They range from apple green to rosey, at the moment. They're fast approaching the deep navy blue of "ripe," but not yet tender and juicy enough to make the ubiquitous robins and other avian berryphiles a nuisance. Before that happens, giant nets--cut-to-size-- must be installed to protect the crop. Sounds like a daunting task. . . more about that when it happens.
We have come to work! The to-do list is long and continuous, but most of the tasks are familiar to any grower of berries--bigtime or small. Whether we're talking a backyard patch or a no-nonsence cash crop, there are weeds to pull, mulching to be chipped and spread, and bushes to be tied and supported. (I'm grateful the annual pruning, spraying, and fertilizing chores have already been crossed-off the list.)
Yesterday, our first day on the job, the 4 of us painted the stand at the entry gate where pickers will check-in, get their buckets and then bring their harvest back to be weighed. What was a tired and sad-looking structure of weather-beaten wood is now a cheery combination of light and dark berry hues. Installing a blue and white striped awning over the ground in front of the counter will complete the make-over, well before the first pickers show up.
Time to head out to the field, where Gale is already pulling pigweed. But first. . . many of you know (or could guess) that I'm missing Charlie on my lap as I type. Rhonda's little gentleman dachsund, Fritz, however, is keeping me from feeling completely dog-less. I'm glad we're becoming friends. He prefers his Mom's lap, of course, and he and I may never come to that level of closeness, but his bright eyes and happy tail make me smile.
About 2 acres of this beautifully preserved blanket of greenspace supports over 2200 well-established blueberry bushes. I walk down the path leading from the house through the hardwood forest, and emerge into a sun-drenched clearing. Taller-than-I-am bushes stretch away in all directions, reaching to the property's edge. The several varieties of bushes are laden with berries. They range from apple green to rosey, at the moment. They're fast approaching the deep navy blue of "ripe," but not yet tender and juicy enough to make the ubiquitous robins and other avian berryphiles a nuisance. Before that happens, giant nets--cut-to-size-- must be installed to protect the crop. Sounds like a daunting task. . . more about that when it happens.
We have come to work! The to-do list is long and continuous, but most of the tasks are familiar to any grower of berries--bigtime or small. Whether we're talking a backyard patch or a no-nonsence cash crop, there are weeds to pull, mulching to be chipped and spread, and bushes to be tied and supported. (I'm grateful the annual pruning, spraying, and fertilizing chores have already been crossed-off the list.)
Yesterday, our first day on the job, the 4 of us painted the stand at the entry gate where pickers will check-in, get their buckets and then bring their harvest back to be weighed. What was a tired and sad-looking structure of weather-beaten wood is now a cheery combination of light and dark berry hues. Installing a blue and white striped awning over the ground in front of the counter will complete the make-over, well before the first pickers show up. |
| Field Supervisor |
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