The exercise:
Write about: a harvest.
Drove down to Osoyoos for a slightly delayed Thanksgiving get together on the farm. Before dinner I helped with the pumpkin harvest in the garden, along with the boys and their cousins and Kat's parents.
Though by the end it was down to me, our eldest niece, and Kat's mother. You'd think working in the garden in mid-October in twenty degree weather was somehow problematic to the kids (at least Kat's father was keeping busy in the kitchen preparing the evening's feast - which was also where Kat could be found for most of the afternoon).
3 comments:
I suppose with the kids there are two issues: one is that picking pumpkins quickly becomes boring, and secondly, they're not invested in the outcome. They haven't started the sowing, they haven't fought the insects and weeds, and they're won't be selling/cooking/carving the pumpkins that are harvested, and they're not yet old enough to appreciate that the people they're helping are invested like that. I'm not sure how you show them that investment but if you can, that might keep them out there helping you for longer :)
The harvest
"Where's Famine?" asked Scuffles. He looked around, for the fourth time, ignoring the snort of derision from War's direction. They were all in a field of pumpkins; orange gourds stretching as far as the eye could see and yellow-green vines stretching and tangling around their ankles. There was a smell of bonfires in the air and Scuffles suspected that that came from Special Military Action, who was hanging around War like a third arm, and whatever she was smoking. Above, tiny white clouds scudded across the purple-red dusk sky and the night-birds were tiny shadows darting here and there.
"Elsewhere, Scuff," said Pestilence fading silently into view in front of Scuffles. He was carrying a scythe with a corroded blade and an ancient-looking wooden handle that Scuffles thought had probably been borrowed from Death. "This is a harvest; this is the last place he'd want to be."
Scuffles nodded, but then Pestilence carried on talking. "Actually sis, scratch that. He'd love to be here, but the rest of us wouldn't like it much. We want these pumpkins, after all, not just piles of rot and hidden decay."
There was a sharp bark and Hilda, War's chihuahua hellhound darted out from somewhere between Pestilence's legs and chased a small, furry animal across the field.
[There might be a version of this in the spam folder -- I think I posted it and it just disappeared. Thankfully I copy the whole thing to the clipboard before submitting...]
"Why do we want these pumpkins?" asked Scuffles. He scratched his head, feeling slightly warm, and wondered who was planning on picking a fight. He looked over at Special Military Action but her eyes were rolled back in her head as though she was on some strong drug or other, and she appeared to be crooning to herself in Russian -- a lullaby, he thought. "We don't need them, right?"
"The boss says he's wants them," said Pestilence.
"War?"
"Death," said Pest with a grin. "Don't let War hear you calling you Death 'the boss' though; that'll frazzle his reticles, and don't let Death hear you calling War 'the boss' either, 'cos that'll get some frosty glares and pointed addition."
Scuffles tried to work out what a reticle was and decided it was probably a Fam word. "Pointed addition?" he said, hoping he'd sound less stupid for asking about that.
"Weaponised mathematics," said Pestilence. "Nasty stuff; I've got no idea how the humans came up with that, but it should probably be banned. Except that banning things never stops them. Watch out!"
Scuffles stepped sideways, passing easily through a couple of a pumpkins as though they weren't there -- something he had only become at ease with in the last couple of months -- and a gout of flame charred one side of both pumpkins. Hilda picked up a toasted furry animal and proudly trotted over to drop it at Pest's feet.
"Is there... is there something symbolic about this harvest?" asked Scuffles. "Only you seem to be using a scythe, which isn't how you'd normally pick a pumpkin."
Pestilence grinned, which was not a sight for anyone with a weak stomach and tapped the side of his nose, which was slightly rotted. "Good guess," he said. "There's a link to the Harvest of Souls, which you can War about when he's done with Special over there."
Scuffles looked over at Special Military Action who appeared to be in retreat from something with her eyes tightly closed.
"Is she alright?" he asked, and Pestilence shook his head gently.
Greg - well I wouldn't be surprised if at least a few of them helped with the sowing, and they all knew the medium sized ones would be turned into pie and the biggest would be carved for Halloween. But I get that the sheer number of pumpkins to be harvested made it difficult to maintain the initial enthusiasm for the task :)
Also: sorry about the spam folder, yet again. It has developed a taste for your work.
A lovely little farm scene with the gang. Much appreciated :)
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