Fruit Slinger

It is a damp, gray day at the orchard.

There is — somehow — a small basket of watermelons sitting by the cider mill, but mostly there are apples. Stacks of them. Bins of them. Trees full of them.

I'm at the orchard because Peter's not. He's out of town.

Do you realize that this is my chance to reshape this whole operation in my own, weird image? Well, at least until Tuesday. Peter's only gone three days.

It's a good bit of extra work for me to do Saturday's market without Peter. On Wednesday, I said to him,"I think on Saturday I'll just back the truck up onto the grass and sell off the back." This is a recurring fantasy.

Peter wasn't fazed.

"Eh, " he said. "What I don't know won't hurt me."

Today I'm going to get a new headlight for the truck, sort through some restaurant orders to pack, get supplies ready for our two markets tomorrow, no doubt talk to Lupe about a few things, and maybe snap a few photos.

I don't pick any fruit that I don't eat. I don't press cider. I don't pick weeds.

People always ask me what I do while I'm on the farm. 

I really have no idea.

I just know sometimes it takes all day.