Here's a short short story contributed by Brazilian resident, and semi-expatriated American, Mel Chaplin, formerly of Binghamton, NY. Enjoy!
The place was a flower and herb farm. It was early Spring, and they were just planting herbs in the greenhouse. Spring doesn't start 'til late May or early June, in Ithaca, NY. Some tulips, daffodils, and other bulbs, had already poked up through the earth. I was there to visit Becky. I was reminiscing about last summer, and the great time Josh and I had when we'd visited her.
Becky loved the farm. Working in the fields, she got to drive the old pick-up truck and tractor. Weekends, she worked at the farmers market, selling the current season's produce. She also arranged fresh and dried flowers, grown on the farm, for sale at the market. The fields, with row after row of flowers always needed tending. My previous visit had been during the sunflower harvest. I remembered how beautiful it was.
Most of the farm's crops were sold to florists and local grocery stores. A neighboring farm grew cherries. Millions of them grew in a secondary orchard that was used in case of a crop failure in the primary orchard. If there were no problems with the main crop, the ones in the secondary orchard were just left to rot on the trees. The cherry farm was a co-op, and Becky had permission to take what she wanted. It was June, and an idyllic day on the rural hillsides. In my mind, I can still feel the balmy wind against my face. The cherries were at peak ripeness. The branches sagged under the weight of the sweet red orbs. Josh and I picked several pounds of them from just one tree, and hardly made a dent in its abundant yield.
I wandered off, tape recorder in hand, making verbal notes of the experience. There was a little haze in the air, as there often is early in the day in New York's hilly lake country. I could clearly see the ridge of the next hill to the east, above the tree tops and low lying haze. I gradually drifted down the hill, to the shady, wooded dell, below. My minds eye took it all in. On my left were grassy fields with pastel wild flowers showing between thin, wispy stems. Pink, yellow, and white, waving gently in the soft breeze. As I looked out over the field I got a larger perspective. I watched a ballet as the grasses and flowers bowed in unison to the master choreographer. The flowers moved like the ripples on a pond, with alternating areas of glassy smoothness.
As I descended deeper into the valley, the trail drifted to the left. Around a bend there was a surprise. There, along the hillside to the right, was another flowered plot. I was struck by a rush of color. Zinnias of many hues, in short fat rows, appeared to be wanting to be picked and sent to market. Their beauty perhaps to be shared by lovers at a candle light dinner? Maybe they would not be sold, and Becky could arrange them creatively. Once arranged, possibly she would take them to the Nursing Home, as she always did at the end of the week. There, maybe their final mission would be to spark nostalgic memories for persons who had little more than their memories left. Or, maybe someone would take one of the arrangements home, as a token of forgiveness for their partner. The possibilities seemed endless.
Emerging from my reverie, I wandered further along the road. I was now heading north, on what was a mostly grass covered trail. Ahead on the left I saw a neatly planted group of young trees. Perhaps it was a future orchard? Beyond the trees, was a field of pumpkins. They were still small and green, with bright yellow-orange flowers punctuating their dark green leaves. I thought, this field must also belong to the co-op.
As I descended deeper into the valley, the trail drifted to the left. Around a bend there was a surprise. There, along the hillside to the right, was another flowered plot. I was struck by a rush of color. Zinnias of many hues, in short fat rows, appeared to be wanting to be picked and sent to market. Their beauty perhaps to be shared by lovers at a candle light dinner? Maybe they would not be sold, and Becky could arrange them creatively. Once arranged, possibly she would take them to the Nursing Home, as she always did at the end of the week. There, maybe their final mission would be to spark nostalgic memories for persons who had little more than their memories left. Or, maybe someone would take one of the arrangements home, as a token of forgiveness for their partner. The possibilities seemed endless.
Emerging from my reverie, I wandered further along the road. I was now heading north, on what was a mostly grass covered trail. Ahead on the left I saw a neatly planted group of young trees. Perhaps it was a future orchard? Beyond the trees, was a field of pumpkins. They were still small and green, with bright yellow-orange flowers punctuating their dark green leaves. I thought, this field must also belong to the co-op.
Just then, to my right I noticed a break in the trees. There was another trail. What was it? I wondered. I walked between the trees. I found a long, straight, flat passageway. Perhaps it's an old railroad bed. I headed south, but didn't get very far. A chasm where a stone bridge once stood, severed the trail. The steep embankment remaining, was too threatening for my constitution.
It was getting late and I had to get back. The kids may think I've gotten lost. I retraced my steps and marched back up the hill with gusto. As I got closer, I saw the field of flowers and the tractor, where Becky was working with another young woman. The bucket on the back of the tractor was filled with blossoms. From this perspective, the field had a very different appearance. I now noticed that the rows were a hundred feet long. I could see that they had been planted sequentially, to assure an ongoing crop yield. The rich, fertile soil, was full of composted organic matter. The long planting mounds were covered with the black plastic, with enough room between the rows for the tractor to cultivate them. There were even numerous varieties of plants that I had not noticed at first glance.
My kids greeted me and we headed uphill toward the barn. To the left of the lane, just below the greenhouse, was a large plot of Iris. They had already bloomed and had been pruned close to the ground. Becky led us inside the barn. There were no electric lights. Sunlight streamed through the open door, and filtered through the cracks in the walls. A little more light came from the few windows high above.
My kids greeted me and we headed uphill toward the barn. To the left of the lane, just below the greenhouse, was a large plot of Iris. They had already bloomed and had been pruned close to the ground. Becky led us inside the barn. There were no electric lights. Sunlight streamed through the open door, and filtered through the cracks in the walls. A little more light came from the few windows high above.
We were at the barn's lowest level, standing on the earthen floor. On the right was an enclosed area. Rebecca showed us this "cold storage" place. Long ago, it had been used as mortuary to store bodies. Ironically, it was where the beautiful flowers now rested, awaiting their final destination. Much like the dead bodies of prior years.
Mel Chaplin
Petropolis, Brazil
Mel Chaplin
Petropolis, Brazil
