A Harvest Bounty of Her Own

A Harvest Bounty of Her Own

Running parallel to our lane are six rows of tiny saplings my husband just planted. Their naked branches are easily bent by the wind sweeping across our valley, making it hard to imagine the harvest bounty they will one day bear. These trees — pear, peach, apple, fig, and cherry — which we hope to make into an orchard, will not come to full maturity for four or five more years. During these years, we will not have any tangible reward for our labors except for the branches growing sturdier and the roots spreading deep into the rich black soil. For four or five years we will prune and fertilize; we will protect the new buds from disease and from the sharp white teeth of deer who roam our property at night and scatter like shooting stars when my husband and I drive through the lane with our headlights bouncing as our tires hit ruts in the gravel.

The cultivating of these trees is just one of the many projects my husband, Randy, and I must accomplish to make our refuge complete. As I write this on the front porch, Randy is circling our house on his mower, and the scent of cut grass is a harbinger of spring as much as the fat robins who hop and ruffle across the shorn green blades the mower leaves behind. This grass will have to be cut countless times in the coming months or else the purple thistles and scuttling crab grass will spear through the hay and turn our verdant acreage into one fairytale jungle.

At night my husband relaxes while drawing out plans for the shop he hopes to build once the final touches of our house are finished. He also has plans for raised beds for our garden, a portable coop for free-range chickens, and a shed to house some spotted, floppy-eared goats. On this porch where I write is a pallet stacked with brown river stones my dear husband gathered to build the outdoor fireplace. Sometimes I know Randy is overwhelmed by the responsibility caring for these forty acres while also running two businesses and maintaining a house entails, and I do not kid myself by thinking I could do the tasks he must.

Beside me on the porch, and next to the brown river stones, my swaddled newborn daughter sleeps right through the thwacking of her father’s mower blades. Every night for the past fourteen I have been up every two hours to feed her. In a way, I could compare Adelaide to those tiny saplings planted at the end of our lane. At this time, there are not many tangible rewards for my labors. My daughter does not really smile, and there are not many long moments during which she opens her beautiful eyes. I know the coming months and years are going to require numerous hours of careful cultivation as my husband and I nourish Adelaide’s physical body and pray that her spiritual roots spread deep into the rich soil created by strong familial love. During the coming months and years I know we will have to protect her from the harsh elements of this fallen world, and that sometimes the magnitude of this responsibility will be so daunting that I will fear I cannot do the tasks I must.

Yet looking at my precious daughter in the same light as those saplings who are so easily swayed by the wind, I know that tonight I will have the strength to once again swing my legs out of bed, rock and coo to my daughter who too soon will be leaving our orchard to marry and bear a harvest bounty of her own.