My Amish neighbors never rest until the corn and beans are harvested and the last jar of sorghum is sealed and put on the shelf. In late fall, the Bontragers crank up their sorghum press and whistle themselves into business. Toot-toooot. The sound of the whistle and the creak of the steel wagon wheel rims on the gravel road are my first clues of the season. Some wagons are pulled by draft horses, the driver’s reins snapping across their taut bodies. Other wagons are pulled by antique tractors, their rubberless rims rattling along, making their own music in a cacophony of bumps, scrapes and moans. At this time of year, one by one the cornfields surrender, the land shaven clean, turned a golden brown. The last cutting of hay is pressed into squares or rolled up into large round bales. A few stubby corn stalks or stray ears of corn may be all that’s visible to the driver of a car bombing down the road.
I love this stories and others you've shared about where real food comes from and how actual decisions are sometimes made--Grandpa gauging the sugar content with his finger!
Wonderful read Brain working better and all improving. Aani drove me to Kenosha yesterday for Thanksgiving. Doing well. Therapists thought good idea. Lots still to do. All tiring
Your stories about Buggy Land are so rich. I feel like I am sitting on the front porch with you sharing the wonder! Thank you.
I love this stories and others you've shared about where real food comes from and how actual decisions are sometimes made--Grandpa gauging the sugar content with his finger!
Wonderful read Brain working better and all improving. Aani drove me to Kenosha yesterday for Thanksgiving. Doing well. Therapists thought good idea. Lots still to do. All tiring
I so enjoy your writings! There is a peacefulness to them. Thank you!