Filling Baskets
In my Lit class, our assignment was to write in "beautiful, descriptive writing" describing a familiar place. It was an easy choice for me; the beloved Odland farm, and Grandma Hanna's garden.
Precisely patterned rows of produce occupy the 40×40 square foot bed of nutrient-rich soil. I am overwhelmed by the redolent smell of plump red raspberries. It’s that time of year when the berries have just surpassed their prime, but haven’t yet reached their rotting stage. The odd fruit clings onto the branch as if it’s savoring the last breaths of life. As for the rest; they’ve tumbled to the garden’s floor and are now the generous host to a feast of hungry fruit flies. Grandma and her six grandchildren race to basket the season’s last batch of fresh raspberry jam and raspberry-rhubarb pie. Arm by arm, we reach further into the bush hoping to avoid those nasty prickles which have fostered little red lines down the entirety of our arms and legs. Funny how it always happens that the most perfect looking berries are the ones that are out of reach of our vertical arm span; almost as if they overlook us with pity. Up onto my shoulder goes the lightest cousin, taunting as she looks down upon her big brother who typically towers over her by two feet. As her fingers struggle to grasp the juiciest one, it is only the absolute extent of her pointer finger that knocks it off and allows it to be cradled by the precisely placed bucket.
That was simply too much work for a few additions to Grandma’s homemade jelly. Instead, we indulge in that sensation of popping a fat raspberry onto our parched tongues and feeling as if the world has stopped while the sweet juice slips down our throats and glides through the esophagus. The sound of crickets chirping radiates through the thick air. Tractors and combines are busy at work in the wheat fields across the street; thankfully, their unpleasant rumblings are drowned out by the chatter and laughter of six content cousins. Rays of sunlight glisten down upon our smiling faces and provide nourishment for the luscious plants we surround ourselves in. The day is near perfect.
Approximately nine rows down the garden at the opposite perimeter, Grandpa, Daddy and Uncle Jim labour away. The bottom of their light-washed jeans are stained by the recently sprinkled mud as they reach down towards the bristly green stems. Each man so focused on his task at hand that he wouldn’t be phased if a large pack of aliens invaded at that exact moment. Fiercely they yank on the forest-green stems; the only above-ground signal of life for these carrots burrowed in the ground. After a little tugging and pulling, surely some soil-softening with the hoe, a healthy batch of pumpkin orange carrots are the trophy to be shown for a valiant effort. They’re covered in chunks of dirt that will require the water pressure of a hose to rinse; or many minutes of scrubbing with a brush. I can almost taste the fresh cream of carrot soup.
Quinn darts over, two large shovels in hand, both of which are bigger than her tiny body, and proudly jabs the ends into the dirt. Uncle Jim and Daddy start on the potatoes. Left foot’s firmly planted on the earth, right leg drives up, and forcefully back down onto of the shovel. Repeat this motion multiple times until the soil has engulfed at least half of the shovel’s bowl. Clutch onto the handle of the shovel and throw your weight back with your arms. With any luck, as you pull back, there will be a nice load of veggies resting inside your shovel. If not, shuffle a foot or two and repeat the action.
I take a moment to appreciate the liberty of farm life. The scent has shifted to that of freshly combined wheat fields. The air now feels quick, as the winds ruffle the Canadian flag, flying high above the barn. A litter of kittens, less than six weeks old dance around the open grass. The children have lost interest in berry picking and are now enthralled in the simple pleasure of rides in the wheel barrow. They struggle to push it through the thick grass, desperately in need of a trim, when along comes ‘Old John’ on the lawn mower. To clear the area, I herd the group into the vacant pig pen. For the last 10 years, it’s played host to an abundance of antique machinery and farm equipment. Derek points out a small red and black motor bike, covered in years of built up dust and cob-webs. It was our Dad’s first big boy toy. Images of Dad tearing up the gravel roads of Enchant, Alberta filled our imaginations simultaneously. Oh, how our lives would be vastly different had we grown up in the rural prairies.
Perhaps the incomparable feeling of my cracked hands gripping onto the strings binding the haystacks together as we race to mount them; proving who would be the superior cousin. Perhaps that never-ending sound of our voices echoing in the hollow grain elevators. Perhaps the smell of the early morning dew on the bumpy gravel roads. Perhaps the taste of Grandma’s snap peas, fresh of the tangled vine. Perhaps the sight of the traditional red barn, home of the typical green tractor which rests inside. Perhaps the view of an everlasting crop, that vanishes over the horizon. Or perhaps it was a combination of all of these things that led me to the tears of a baby upon hearing the news that my Grandparents were passing on the family farm and moving into the city. I’ll never forget that tragic day. But more importantly, I’ll never forget those priceless Summer memories in that familiar place that never fails to make my senses tingle and my heart flutter; the Odland Family farm.
Precisely patterned rows of produce occupy the 40×40 square foot bed of nutrient-rich soil. I am overwhelmed by the redolent smell of plump red raspberries. It’s that time of year when the berries have just surpassed their prime, but haven’t yet reached their rotting stage. The odd fruit clings onto the branch as if it’s savoring the last breaths of life. As for the rest; they’ve tumbled to the garden’s floor and are now the generous host to a feast of hungry fruit flies. Grandma and her six grandchildren race to basket the season’s last batch of fresh raspberry jam and raspberry-rhubarb pie. Arm by arm, we reach further into the bush hoping to avoid those nasty prickles which have fostered little red lines down the entirety of our arms and legs. Funny how it always happens that the most perfect looking berries are the ones that are out of reach of our vertical arm span; almost as if they overlook us with pity. Up onto my shoulder goes the lightest cousin, taunting as she looks down upon her big brother who typically towers over her by two feet. As her fingers struggle to grasp the juiciest one, it is only the absolute extent of her pointer finger that knocks it off and allows it to be cradled by the precisely placed bucket.
That was simply too much work for a few additions to Grandma’s homemade jelly. Instead, we indulge in that sensation of popping a fat raspberry onto our parched tongues and feeling as if the world has stopped while the sweet juice slips down our throats and glides through the esophagus. The sound of crickets chirping radiates through the thick air. Tractors and combines are busy at work in the wheat fields across the street; thankfully, their unpleasant rumblings are drowned out by the chatter and laughter of six content cousins. Rays of sunlight glisten down upon our smiling faces and provide nourishment for the luscious plants we surround ourselves in. The day is near perfect.
Approximately nine rows down the garden at the opposite perimeter, Grandpa, Daddy and Uncle Jim labour away. The bottom of their light-washed jeans are stained by the recently sprinkled mud as they reach down towards the bristly green stems. Each man so focused on his task at hand that he wouldn’t be phased if a large pack of aliens invaded at that exact moment. Fiercely they yank on the forest-green stems; the only above-ground signal of life for these carrots burrowed in the ground. After a little tugging and pulling, surely some soil-softening with the hoe, a healthy batch of pumpkin orange carrots are the trophy to be shown for a valiant effort. They’re covered in chunks of dirt that will require the water pressure of a hose to rinse; or many minutes of scrubbing with a brush. I can almost taste the fresh cream of carrot soup.
Quinn darts over, two large shovels in hand, both of which are bigger than her tiny body, and proudly jabs the ends into the dirt. Uncle Jim and Daddy start on the potatoes. Left foot’s firmly planted on the earth, right leg drives up, and forcefully back down onto of the shovel. Repeat this motion multiple times until the soil has engulfed at least half of the shovel’s bowl. Clutch onto the handle of the shovel and throw your weight back with your arms. With any luck, as you pull back, there will be a nice load of veggies resting inside your shovel. If not, shuffle a foot or two and repeat the action.
I take a moment to appreciate the liberty of farm life. The scent has shifted to that of freshly combined wheat fields. The air now feels quick, as the winds ruffle the Canadian flag, flying high above the barn. A litter of kittens, less than six weeks old dance around the open grass. The children have lost interest in berry picking and are now enthralled in the simple pleasure of rides in the wheel barrow. They struggle to push it through the thick grass, desperately in need of a trim, when along comes ‘Old John’ on the lawn mower. To clear the area, I herd the group into the vacant pig pen. For the last 10 years, it’s played host to an abundance of antique machinery and farm equipment. Derek points out a small red and black motor bike, covered in years of built up dust and cob-webs. It was our Dad’s first big boy toy. Images of Dad tearing up the gravel roads of Enchant, Alberta filled our imaginations simultaneously. Oh, how our lives would be vastly different had we grown up in the rural prairies.
Perhaps the incomparable feeling of my cracked hands gripping onto the strings binding the haystacks together as we race to mount them; proving who would be the superior cousin. Perhaps that never-ending sound of our voices echoing in the hollow grain elevators. Perhaps the smell of the early morning dew on the bumpy gravel roads. Perhaps the taste of Grandma’s snap peas, fresh of the tangled vine. Perhaps the sight of the traditional red barn, home of the typical green tractor which rests inside. Perhaps the view of an everlasting crop, that vanishes over the horizon. Or perhaps it was a combination of all of these things that led me to the tears of a baby upon hearing the news that my Grandparents were passing on the family farm and moving into the city. I’ll never forget that tragic day. But more importantly, I’ll never forget those priceless Summer memories in that familiar place that never fails to make my senses tingle and my heart flutter; the Odland Family farm.
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