Thank you Winnie for your support, it means a lot to me, having you here. And everyone else, Welcome! I would like to have an adventure, lets walk down a trail and see what magic we can find, want to? There may be portals between the hedgerows and the corn fields so keep a good eye open. Whichever path we take let's keep nature close by our side and our hearts tuned to the divine, shall we? I have a feeling it's going to be grand. I'll meet you here by the blue door.
Sunday, June 27, 2004
Berries and Market Meetings
by Trendle Ellwood
My life seems to involve two things these days, berry picking and market going. Summer solstice passed and so they say that the length of day is shortening. But still I know that the hottest days are yet to come. As I search out the ripe black raspberry I see bumper crops of the wild blackberries turning plump and green alongside the fencerows. Soon they will glisten black and I will be plunking them into my pails. These wild berries get into your blood, or maybe they were already there, something that I inherited. I had to laugh out loud when Grandpa told me that he could never stop picking until his pail was full when I took him and Grandma some berries the other day. Hah! Does that sound like someone else you know? Oh how I wish that he were well enough to go picking with me now as we did when I was a child. Ah! But life can be bitter sweet.
Speaking of Bittersweet, the vines of them that we planted in our yard have little green buds all over them and I am thrilled that I will have the delightful orange clusters of them to cheer me this fall. The Elder bushes are taking off their lacy white dresses and putting on green berries also. The Red Raspberries are ripening in our garden. I feel married to the seasons, being so intimate with them, each berry passing ripe through my fingers. There is something that gets downloaded into me as I pass through each of their unique colors and textures, something that I can feel but cannot quite put my finger on.
How fitting that the first ripe berry makes us kneel to the ground as if in worship. They have bred plants to do many unusual things, but they have not yet bred the strawberry to grow on a bush. And so it is in knelling that we start off the berry-picking season.
So then it is a relief to not kink our bodies up bent over but to get to stand when the strawberry has finished her blushing and the black raspberry is ready. And then also it is a relief to pick the domestic red raspberries from the garden without fighting the briar and the thorn of the wild.
When I am not dreaming of picking or actually picking these fruits, then we are off to market. Every once in a while we will join a small group of the market vendors to an outing at a nearby restaurant. I have to admit that we are the most boisterous group at the restaurant. I cannot help it, sometimes I look around to see if we are disturbing anybody. Is anyone getting up and moving because of us? We get fired up, talking about farming practices that go against nature, people who don’t understand our mission, and customers who complain about our prices. We decide that we just need to educate them!
Most of us live without health insurance, air conditioners, or two bathroom houses. We believe in living simply, our main mission is not about making money. Sure, we would like to have enough money, but we are not out to rob peoples pockets dry as some people try to think. There might be produce cheaper down at the nearby grocery store but where did it come from? What has it been sprayed with? Herbicides? Insecticides? Were sustainable agricultural methods used to produce it?
Unlike the big farmers we do not get subsidized for anything. I read in the newspaper today that they are paying farmers to plant grasses and trees alongside river and creek banks to help lower the amount of toxic chemicals that flow from the fields into our waterways. This surely is a good thing, but we do not have to get paid by the government to do the right thing, keeping in harmony with nature is what we are all about. It is what we believe in! We humans have pushed this good earth to her limit; it is time to look at what we are doing and how we are bringing food from her.
As we discuss these things at our gatherings on Wednesday evenings we sometimes get a little loud with our passionate feelings. But those who wait on us do not seem to mind; they even keep a big table open for us, just in case we show up after market. I am feeling a kinship with these fellow tenders of the earth that I have not felt with a group of people in a long time except for the group that gathers here at the WhiteFeather forum. June is almost over and I must go and once again put on my long pants because the ripe glistening berry beckons still.
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My life seems to involve two things these days, berry picking and market going. Summer solstice passed and so they say that the length of day is shortening. But still I know that the hottest days are yet to come. As I search out the ripe black raspberry I see bumper crops of the wild blackberries turning plump and green alongside the fencerows. Soon they will glisten black and I will be plunking them into my pails. These wild berries get into your blood, or maybe they were already there, something that I inherited. I had to laugh out loud when Grandpa told me that he could never stop picking until his pail was full when I took him and Grandma some berries the other day. Hah! Does that sound like someone else you know? Oh how I wish that he were well enough to go picking with me now as we did when I was a child. Ah! But life can be bitter sweet.
Speaking of Bittersweet, the vines of them that we planted in our yard have little green buds all over them and I am thrilled that I will have the delightful orange clusters of them to cheer me this fall. The Elder bushes are taking off their lacy white dresses and putting on green berries also. The Red Raspberries are ripening in our garden. I feel married to the seasons, being so intimate with them, each berry passing ripe through my fingers. There is something that gets downloaded into me as I pass through each of their unique colors and textures, something that I can feel but cannot quite put my finger on.
How fitting that the first ripe berry makes us kneel to the ground as if in worship. They have bred plants to do many unusual things, but they have not yet bred the strawberry to grow on a bush. And so it is in knelling that we start off the berry-picking season.
So then it is a relief to not kink our bodies up bent over but to get to stand when the strawberry has finished her blushing and the black raspberry is ready. And then also it is a relief to pick the domestic red raspberries from the garden without fighting the briar and the thorn of the wild.
When I am not dreaming of picking or actually picking these fruits, then we are off to market. Every once in a while we will join a small group of the market vendors to an outing at a nearby restaurant. I have to admit that we are the most boisterous group at the restaurant. I cannot help it, sometimes I look around to see if we are disturbing anybody. Is anyone getting up and moving because of us? We get fired up, talking about farming practices that go against nature, people who don’t understand our mission, and customers who complain about our prices. We decide that we just need to educate them!
Most of us live without health insurance, air conditioners, or two bathroom houses. We believe in living simply, our main mission is not about making money. Sure, we would like to have enough money, but we are not out to rob peoples pockets dry as some people try to think. There might be produce cheaper down at the nearby grocery store but where did it come from? What has it been sprayed with? Herbicides? Insecticides? Were sustainable agricultural methods used to produce it?
Unlike the big farmers we do not get subsidized for anything. I read in the newspaper today that they are paying farmers to plant grasses and trees alongside river and creek banks to help lower the amount of toxic chemicals that flow from the fields into our waterways. This surely is a good thing, but we do not have to get paid by the government to do the right thing, keeping in harmony with nature is what we are all about. It is what we believe in! We humans have pushed this good earth to her limit; it is time to look at what we are doing and how we are bringing food from her.
As we discuss these things at our gatherings on Wednesday evenings we sometimes get a little loud with our passionate feelings. But those who wait on us do not seem to mind; they even keep a big table open for us, just in case we show up after market. I am feeling a kinship with these fellow tenders of the earth that I have not felt with a group of people in a long time except for the group that gathers here at the WhiteFeather forum. June is almost over and I must go and once again put on my long pants because the ripe glistening berry beckons still.
Sunday, June 20, 2004
The Lull Turned Lush
by Trendle Ellwood
"We're not simple laborers or traditional farmers. We're refugees of a dying Industrial Age. We recognize the roots and origins of our modern urban culture, and we are here today to raise the voices of battered agricultural lands, to repair the damage to our soils, our families, our communities, and our culture. As such, we are worthy citizens." James Donaldson
Our strawberries were now a thing of the past and there was a lull before our red raspberries would be ready for picking. I felt a little down, it had been so much fun passing out samples at market of our strawberry jam, and hearing everyone’s, “Oh yums!” as they tasted it. It seemed that ninety percent of those who tried a sampling bought a jar. And so it disappeared as soon as I could make it and bring it in. It is a wonderful feeling at market when you have something that practically sells itself. What would I have to do now? Of course we had Hubby’s honey and my flowers but I wished for a fruit. Fruit is the hot item at the farmers market.
The Amish down the road were selling the last of their strawberries for 2 dollars a quart! I was tempted to go and buy some and make it up into jam to have something to take the following week. I would still make a profit after processing them at that price. But alas there is more to life than the pursuit of the mighty dollar. If making money were all that we were about, we would be driving to work for somebody else. I have told our customers that our jams and jellies are made from fruit grown without herbicides or pesticides. It wouldn’t be right to sell them something that I could not put that guarantee behind. So I threw that temptation behind me.
Was there anything that could follow the much-loved strawberry? The rhubarb was still being asked for at market but she begged me not to pick her lovely ruby stalks anymore but to give her a time of rest. Our lettuce and radishes did not bring in much income, and we do need to pay the bills. Knowing that the creative force is always with us I threw a prayer to the universe for an answer to what I would take to market and then went about my daily duties.
Then a few days later it happened, I got my answer. Hubby walked into the door after a visit to his apiary (bee hives) up at Farmer Shaws and thrust before me a handful of wild black raspberries. Yes! Wild black raspberries! That was what I was presented by Hubby, by the universe, by God, by Merlin who laughs at my impatience as he says, “ See you are provided for!” I immediately called up the Shaws and told Becky that I was asking for permission to pick something again and before I even told her what, she was telling me to pick away. Oh! How wonderful to have such kindhearted farmers for neighbors who let me gather with delight the wild things that grow beside the woods and in their hedgerows!
So we found the buckets and dressed ourselves in long pants with long sleeves on our arms and set out for the brambles. Oh! It had been years since I had stalked the wild black raspberry! Why, it had been before we moved here! Where we used to live, there was wilder, unclaimed country where one could ramble and find the bushes. But here closer to a city, there seemed to be a shortage of spots for the brambles to spread.
But behind the apiary in Farmer Shaws untamed back yard, on top of an old wood pile that had never been burnt and was beginning to rot, the vines had spread unencumbered and they were full of green, red and black berries. The black ones just dying to be plunked into our pails, Plunk, plunk, plunk, oh how I love that sound and the way it soon changes to a soft thud, as the buckets get filled with glistening black berries.
Now, there is something that you might not know about me. I have obsessive-compulsive disorder when it comes to wild berry picking. Once I get started it is the only thing on my mind for days and days. When I close my eyes to go to sleep at night I see the red ones beckoning me as my dream hand reaches out to pluck the black one beside it. Hubby once asked me if I have ever consulted with a counselor about this, and I told him no I never talked to them about berries. He came back with, “ Well don’t, or I might never see you again!”
I usually think of Hubby as the strong one, he works longer and with less breaks then I do. But when it comes to picking berries in the wild patch he will be the first one to tell you that I have more endurance then he does. The first day we went out he was ready to stop picking before I was. It has been that way all my life; I have always left everyone behind in the berry patch. With wild berry mettle beating in my heart and the adrenaline raceing through my body, I cannot stop until the last berry is picked.
Every day for a week we have been going back to pluck these berries which continue to ripen in the June heat. Oh sure, we fight mosquitoes and have to watch out for snakes. The nettle tries to sting us and the poison hemlock is a danger. Our legs and arms are all snagged up despite our long sleeves and jeans. My fingers are stained a dark purple, but there is a passion in my heart that is fulfilled when I am in the wild berry patch. I always feel so thankful when I am out there! Thankful for the breeze that cools my sweaty brow. Thankful that I have everything that I need, if I am thirsty I can eat some berries; if I am hungry I can eat more berries. So thankful for these free for the taking, grown by God wild berries. And I am oh so thankful that nobody else has found and claimed this particular berry patch!
But with this wild berry obsessive nature of mine, Farmers Shaw’s patch was not quite big enough to fulfill the desire which had been sparked within me. My mind, eyes and legs searched through the surrounding countryside trying to locate another patch, to no avail. That is until I was taking care of my neighbor’s dog down the road and collecting her mail for her while she was away. It was then that my eye spied a red berry on a bank. Soon I was scurrying up this bank and finding another awesome berry patch on the hill. My neighbor came back and I got her permission to pick away. I swore her to silence. Made her promise not to tell anyone else about this patch but to keep it our secret. Because you know the old saying, “ Finders keepers, losers weepers!” Well I might be weeping if anyone else finds that patch after I have already worn down paths through its grabbing briars to make the picking easier. And after I have dreamed all those red berries into turning black and glistening and plunking them softly into my pail. And of course I will award her for this silence, now that I know that she prefers black raspberry jam.
Our customers at market love my fresh made wild black raspberry jam and jelly as much as they did the strawberry. They are buying it as fast as we can bring it in. Isn’t it wonderful how God is with us, and how we are given what we need, just enough to keep our sales going. I wasn’t given a whole acre of wild berries to pick because God knows I would pick until I had heat stroke if that was the case. We have been given just enough, just enough to stain my fingers purple and to fill my heart with joy.
Copyright © 2004, by Trendle Ellwood. All Rights Reserved.
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"We're not simple laborers or traditional farmers. We're refugees of a dying Industrial Age. We recognize the roots and origins of our modern urban culture, and we are here today to raise the voices of battered agricultural lands, to repair the damage to our soils, our families, our communities, and our culture. As such, we are worthy citizens." James Donaldson
Our strawberries were now a thing of the past and there was a lull before our red raspberries would be ready for picking. I felt a little down, it had been so much fun passing out samples at market of our strawberry jam, and hearing everyone’s, “Oh yums!” as they tasted it. It seemed that ninety percent of those who tried a sampling bought a jar. And so it disappeared as soon as I could make it and bring it in. It is a wonderful feeling at market when you have something that practically sells itself. What would I have to do now? Of course we had Hubby’s honey and my flowers but I wished for a fruit. Fruit is the hot item at the farmers market.
The Amish down the road were selling the last of their strawberries for 2 dollars a quart! I was tempted to go and buy some and make it up into jam to have something to take the following week. I would still make a profit after processing them at that price. But alas there is more to life than the pursuit of the mighty dollar. If making money were all that we were about, we would be driving to work for somebody else. I have told our customers that our jams and jellies are made from fruit grown without herbicides or pesticides. It wouldn’t be right to sell them something that I could not put that guarantee behind. So I threw that temptation behind me.
Was there anything that could follow the much-loved strawberry? The rhubarb was still being asked for at market but she begged me not to pick her lovely ruby stalks anymore but to give her a time of rest. Our lettuce and radishes did not bring in much income, and we do need to pay the bills. Knowing that the creative force is always with us I threw a prayer to the universe for an answer to what I would take to market and then went about my daily duties.
Then a few days later it happened, I got my answer. Hubby walked into the door after a visit to his apiary (bee hives) up at Farmer Shaws and thrust before me a handful of wild black raspberries. Yes! Wild black raspberries! That was what I was presented by Hubby, by the universe, by God, by Merlin who laughs at my impatience as he says, “ See you are provided for!” I immediately called up the Shaws and told Becky that I was asking for permission to pick something again and before I even told her what, she was telling me to pick away. Oh! How wonderful to have such kindhearted farmers for neighbors who let me gather with delight the wild things that grow beside the woods and in their hedgerows!
So we found the buckets and dressed ourselves in long pants with long sleeves on our arms and set out for the brambles. Oh! It had been years since I had stalked the wild black raspberry! Why, it had been before we moved here! Where we used to live, there was wilder, unclaimed country where one could ramble and find the bushes. But here closer to a city, there seemed to be a shortage of spots for the brambles to spread.
But behind the apiary in Farmer Shaws untamed back yard, on top of an old wood pile that had never been burnt and was beginning to rot, the vines had spread unencumbered and they were full of green, red and black berries. The black ones just dying to be plunked into our pails, Plunk, plunk, plunk, oh how I love that sound and the way it soon changes to a soft thud, as the buckets get filled with glistening black berries.
Now, there is something that you might not know about me. I have obsessive-compulsive disorder when it comes to wild berry picking. Once I get started it is the only thing on my mind for days and days. When I close my eyes to go to sleep at night I see the red ones beckoning me as my dream hand reaches out to pluck the black one beside it. Hubby once asked me if I have ever consulted with a counselor about this, and I told him no I never talked to them about berries. He came back with, “ Well don’t, or I might never see you again!”
I usually think of Hubby as the strong one, he works longer and with less breaks then I do. But when it comes to picking berries in the wild patch he will be the first one to tell you that I have more endurance then he does. The first day we went out he was ready to stop picking before I was. It has been that way all my life; I have always left everyone behind in the berry patch. With wild berry mettle beating in my heart and the adrenaline raceing through my body, I cannot stop until the last berry is picked.
Every day for a week we have been going back to pluck these berries which continue to ripen in the June heat. Oh sure, we fight mosquitoes and have to watch out for snakes. The nettle tries to sting us and the poison hemlock is a danger. Our legs and arms are all snagged up despite our long sleeves and jeans. My fingers are stained a dark purple, but there is a passion in my heart that is fulfilled when I am in the wild berry patch. I always feel so thankful when I am out there! Thankful for the breeze that cools my sweaty brow. Thankful that I have everything that I need, if I am thirsty I can eat some berries; if I am hungry I can eat more berries. So thankful for these free for the taking, grown by God wild berries. And I am oh so thankful that nobody else has found and claimed this particular berry patch!
But with this wild berry obsessive nature of mine, Farmers Shaw’s patch was not quite big enough to fulfill the desire which had been sparked within me. My mind, eyes and legs searched through the surrounding countryside trying to locate another patch, to no avail. That is until I was taking care of my neighbor’s dog down the road and collecting her mail for her while she was away. It was then that my eye spied a red berry on a bank. Soon I was scurrying up this bank and finding another awesome berry patch on the hill. My neighbor came back and I got her permission to pick away. I swore her to silence. Made her promise not to tell anyone else about this patch but to keep it our secret. Because you know the old saying, “ Finders keepers, losers weepers!” Well I might be weeping if anyone else finds that patch after I have already worn down paths through its grabbing briars to make the picking easier. And after I have dreamed all those red berries into turning black and glistening and plunking them softly into my pail. And of course I will award her for this silence, now that I know that she prefers black raspberry jam.
Our customers at market love my fresh made wild black raspberry jam and jelly as much as they did the strawberry. They are buying it as fast as we can bring it in. Isn’t it wonderful how God is with us, and how we are given what we need, just enough to keep our sales going. I wasn’t given a whole acre of wild berries to pick because God knows I would pick until I had heat stroke if that was the case. We have been given just enough, just enough to stain my fingers purple and to fill my heart with joy.
Copyright © 2004, by Trendle Ellwood. All Rights Reserved.
Sunday, June 13, 2004
Market Storm
by Trendle Ellwood
I have done quite a bit of bragging about how much I love to experience a thunderstorm. Well, I need to revise that a bit. I do love thunderstorms as long as I am viewing them from the safety of our own front porch.
There was a chance of a storm when we set up for market Wednesday evening. But when is there not a chance of a storm in our humid Ohio Junes? We went ahead and unfolded our awning and spread our tables, as did the other homesteaders. Soon we were busy selling our goods. I was passing out samples of our freshly made strawberry jam, which then sold it’s self. As I looked up and down the market row, I could see that the whole place was packed with people visiting the stands.
Mary the Coffee Café lady hollered at us that she had heard on the radio that the storm was 13 miles away. We all remained optimists, this threatening cloud would do like many a June cloud does, just sprinkle us a little then go on. Surely all these people would not be here sampling and buying if a storm were about to break loose.
Wrong! Suddenly we were getting dumped on with what seemed like bucketfuls of water from the sky, and the thunder and lightning were clanging and slashing through the air. I was gathering up our goods by taking the four corners of the tablecloths and drawing them together then throwing them into the back of the cab of the pickup truck in big scoops. People were gathered under our awning for what little protection it provided. I looked around me and saw that the other homesteaders were all doing the same flurried dance that I was.
We were soaking wet and wondering if the storm was going to ease or get worse. I could see the other homesteaders holding unto their awnings to keep them from blowing across the parking lot. Hubby lowered the storm facing side of our awning as a brace against the breaking wind. My thoughts were torn; here we had people hiding under our awning, now turned lean to, but yet what a risk we were taking holding unto metal poles in a thunderstorm! Swishing by our feet was at least four inches of water as the rain pelted down turning the pavement that we stood upon, into a rushing riverbed. I had the strangest feeling in my gut as I witnessed one of Amish man Dan’s angel food cakes swirling past us in this stream.
I kneeled down and stroked the cheek of the little girl who stood trembling beside me as we offered to help her and her mother to their car. With no idea if the storm was going to cease or get worse we made the decision to get our broken awning into our pickup trucks cab. The people ran through the lightning to their vehicles as we gathered up the rest of our stuff. Mary and some of the other homesteaders were helping us; we were all silly with stress, giggling in the rain like a bunch of crazies.
Just as we about got everything loaded up the storm seemed to lose intensity and the sky showed signs of clearing. Already wet to our bones we stood in the remaining rain as the homesteaders who had not retreated gathered to share stories. We decided if anyone had been able to video tape the scene of us all caught in that storm that it would have won us all some big bucks on the Funniest Home Videos Show.
The storm passed on as the last remaining raindrops came down. Most of the homesteaders packed up and left but there was still an hour left of market time so a few of us decided to remain. We spread out our tablecloths to dry and plopped our produce back upon the tables. We did continue to sell as more patrons arrived after the storm.
One fellow who had probably been in a local bar getting soaked in a different kind of way during the storm came by and I watched as he messed with Amish man Dan. Then he came over to our stand. He kept looking at my flowers, which were still beautiful with their blossoms of light blue and white Hydrangeas and pink and red Sweet Williams. He kept looking at them and exclaiming, “seven dollars!” “ Seven dollars!”
I was trying to figure out if he thought they were cheap or what as I wrung the water from my skirt. Then he told me that he would buy one for four dollars but seven! That was the final straw! Couldn’t this man even see that I had just stood here through a thunderstorm with my very life at risk! And now he wanted to dicker with me about the price of my flowers! Now folks I don’t know if this is what Jesus would have done, I doubt it, but I ended up telling this fellow to go pick his own! Amish man Dan got a big kick out of this and bent over in a big belly laugh. Meanwhile Hubby was warming up his fist in case it would be needed if his wife got herself into deep water. Deep water, hah!
All in all we were glad that we stayed as some of our favorite customers came by. One of Hubby’s honey fans bought five jars to take with her on a trip to England. She just loooooves our honey she told us. The breeze left over from the storm helped dry our clothing and a group of us decided to go out to eat at the Mexican restaurant afterwards. We must have been the most boisterous bunch at the place as we shifted our stress into laughter with storm reminiscing.
Brian, one of the homesteaders who is a bit on the ornery side had viewed the storm as a chance for a wet t-shirt contest as he checked out the drenched females. I kept my thick apron on until my shirt dried! The fellows at the restaurant decided that they were going to get back at Brian and next Saturday at Market he is going to be called forward for a special award. Brian is going to be presented with a wet t-shirt trophy for himself! I cannot wait to see the look on his face at that moment.
Am I sorry? Am I sorry that sometimes our way of making a living leaves us drenched to the bone? A big resounding no! No, because we are free, free to flow like the June storms. And although we may be baked by the sun and plastered by the rain at times, our souls are living and growing. And we are working for something that we believe in, the bounty that we produce with love from our little spot on earth. But I must say, the next time that a big ole storm sweeps down with it’s free heart, I do hope that I am not out in it but safe at home on our front porch.
Copyright © 2004, by Trendle Ellwood. All Rights Reserved.
(0) comments
I have done quite a bit of bragging about how much I love to experience a thunderstorm. Well, I need to revise that a bit. I do love thunderstorms as long as I am viewing them from the safety of our own front porch.
There was a chance of a storm when we set up for market Wednesday evening. But when is there not a chance of a storm in our humid Ohio Junes? We went ahead and unfolded our awning and spread our tables, as did the other homesteaders. Soon we were busy selling our goods. I was passing out samples of our freshly made strawberry jam, which then sold it’s self. As I looked up and down the market row, I could see that the whole place was packed with people visiting the stands.
Mary the Coffee Café lady hollered at us that she had heard on the radio that the storm was 13 miles away. We all remained optimists, this threatening cloud would do like many a June cloud does, just sprinkle us a little then go on. Surely all these people would not be here sampling and buying if a storm were about to break loose.
Wrong! Suddenly we were getting dumped on with what seemed like bucketfuls of water from the sky, and the thunder and lightning were clanging and slashing through the air. I was gathering up our goods by taking the four corners of the tablecloths and drawing them together then throwing them into the back of the cab of the pickup truck in big scoops. People were gathered under our awning for what little protection it provided. I looked around me and saw that the other homesteaders were all doing the same flurried dance that I was.
We were soaking wet and wondering if the storm was going to ease or get worse. I could see the other homesteaders holding unto their awnings to keep them from blowing across the parking lot. Hubby lowered the storm facing side of our awning as a brace against the breaking wind. My thoughts were torn; here we had people hiding under our awning, now turned lean to, but yet what a risk we were taking holding unto metal poles in a thunderstorm! Swishing by our feet was at least four inches of water as the rain pelted down turning the pavement that we stood upon, into a rushing riverbed. I had the strangest feeling in my gut as I witnessed one of Amish man Dan’s angel food cakes swirling past us in this stream.
I kneeled down and stroked the cheek of the little girl who stood trembling beside me as we offered to help her and her mother to their car. With no idea if the storm was going to cease or get worse we made the decision to get our broken awning into our pickup trucks cab. The people ran through the lightning to their vehicles as we gathered up the rest of our stuff. Mary and some of the other homesteaders were helping us; we were all silly with stress, giggling in the rain like a bunch of crazies.
Just as we about got everything loaded up the storm seemed to lose intensity and the sky showed signs of clearing. Already wet to our bones we stood in the remaining rain as the homesteaders who had not retreated gathered to share stories. We decided if anyone had been able to video tape the scene of us all caught in that storm that it would have won us all some big bucks on the Funniest Home Videos Show.
The storm passed on as the last remaining raindrops came down. Most of the homesteaders packed up and left but there was still an hour left of market time so a few of us decided to remain. We spread out our tablecloths to dry and plopped our produce back upon the tables. We did continue to sell as more patrons arrived after the storm.
One fellow who had probably been in a local bar getting soaked in a different kind of way during the storm came by and I watched as he messed with Amish man Dan. Then he came over to our stand. He kept looking at my flowers, which were still beautiful with their blossoms of light blue and white Hydrangeas and pink and red Sweet Williams. He kept looking at them and exclaiming, “seven dollars!” “ Seven dollars!”
I was trying to figure out if he thought they were cheap or what as I wrung the water from my skirt. Then he told me that he would buy one for four dollars but seven! That was the final straw! Couldn’t this man even see that I had just stood here through a thunderstorm with my very life at risk! And now he wanted to dicker with me about the price of my flowers! Now folks I don’t know if this is what Jesus would have done, I doubt it, but I ended up telling this fellow to go pick his own! Amish man Dan got a big kick out of this and bent over in a big belly laugh. Meanwhile Hubby was warming up his fist in case it would be needed if his wife got herself into deep water. Deep water, hah!
All in all we were glad that we stayed as some of our favorite customers came by. One of Hubby’s honey fans bought five jars to take with her on a trip to England. She just loooooves our honey she told us. The breeze left over from the storm helped dry our clothing and a group of us decided to go out to eat at the Mexican restaurant afterwards. We must have been the most boisterous bunch at the place as we shifted our stress into laughter with storm reminiscing.
Brian, one of the homesteaders who is a bit on the ornery side had viewed the storm as a chance for a wet t-shirt contest as he checked out the drenched females. I kept my thick apron on until my shirt dried! The fellows at the restaurant decided that they were going to get back at Brian and next Saturday at Market he is going to be called forward for a special award. Brian is going to be presented with a wet t-shirt trophy for himself! I cannot wait to see the look on his face at that moment.
Am I sorry? Am I sorry that sometimes our way of making a living leaves us drenched to the bone? A big resounding no! No, because we are free, free to flow like the June storms. And although we may be baked by the sun and plastered by the rain at times, our souls are living and growing. And we are working for something that we believe in, the bounty that we produce with love from our little spot on earth. But I must say, the next time that a big ole storm sweeps down with it’s free heart, I do hope that I am not out in it but safe at home on our front porch.
Copyright © 2004, by Trendle Ellwood. All Rights Reserved.
Sunday, June 06, 2004
While Venus Sings
by Trendle Ellwood
Today we will go down to where the
Hemlock tree grows on stones.
To find a hollow place
In the crevice of the hills.
A gateway opens.
Beckons us within.
Beside the moss and the fern.
Do we enter?
Or do we stay?
There is fear,
We are resistant to change
What lies beyond the opening?
An ever expanding
Joyous journey!
For it leads us home again.
Within.
Just a hollow place,
In the crevice of the hills.
While Venus sings.
Copyright © 2004, by Trendle Ellwood. All Rights Reserved.
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Today we will go down to where the
Hemlock tree grows on stones.
To find a hollow place
In the crevice of the hills.
A gateway opens.
Beckons us within.
Beside the moss and the fern.
Do we enter?
Or do we stay?
There is fear,
We are resistant to change
What lies beyond the opening?
An ever expanding
Joyous journey!
For it leads us home again.
Within.
Just a hollow place,
In the crevice of the hills.
While Venus sings.
Copyright © 2004, by Trendle Ellwood. All Rights Reserved.
