By the Dashboard Lights
by Dave Friedli
11/04/99
Bounty by the Bushel
The father-in-law called this past week to gloat. Yield results
from the farm on the
On one farm, the corn produced 189 bushels per acre. I responded
with my usual flat-toned question, "Oh?".
I didn't know whether I should be elated or concerned.
Quickly, I discovered he was excited about such a production, and so
I was able to modify my reaction into praise, amazement and
congratulations. I am genuinely happy his farming has paid off.
But what I really wanted to tell him was, "So what."
My small plot of land has produced over a thousand bushels this
fall. And I am not done counting yet.
Every day, there is evidence that this may be a bumper crop.
Unless we get a hard frost and hurricane-force winds, I will be
keeping my final autumn count open until far past Thanksgiving.
But for now, by my estimation, I've got at least a thousand bushels,
and it is obvious there will be more.
That is evident when peering at towering maple trees and realizing
more than half of their leaves still cling to branches.
Most people don't think of leaves as a fruit of the harvest, but in
my world, they are the closest thing I have to a crop.
I don't garden well. A few small heads of broccoli, planted and
nurtured by The Wife, were all of our edible produce this year.
The lawn did not look as green, nor was it as thick and dense as
usual, due to summer's heat and drought.
But my trees have produced a bountiful crop of leaves and with every
day, the number falling to the ground increases.
I understand the phenomenon that when there is a huge crop, demand
wanes and prices fall, and this year only one good soul came forth,
begging for my leaves as compost for his plot of fertile ground.
He won't pay me a cent for them, but simply to have a market for
them, an outlet for their quick disposal, is payment enough.
My hands are rough and blistered from three complete rakings I have
made of my yard. I can only imagine I will use more band-aids and
Corn Husker's Lotion before the season ends.
There are still thousands of amber leaves waiting to drop
noiselessly on the green carpet of grass surrounding my house. Some
will be claimed in the 2.5 bushel leaf bag of my lawn mower as I make
hundreds of passes across the yard.
Others will fall on the garage roof and find themselves in the
coffin of the rain gutter until my leaf blower/vacuum extracts them
into a bag, shredded and mulched into a powdery dust.
Still more will blow into corners of the yard, under bushes and into
house window wells, hiding and hoping to remain there for the winter.
But my rake and gloved hands will claim them, too.
And even when my trees are bare, I know the wind will deposit leaves
from around the neighborhood--yes, even from across town--against the
fence in the yard.
Stuffed into heavy black plastic bags, they will wait to join their
fallen relatives on that undisclosed garden plot in town, eventually
creating mulch for the nourishment of other crops.
My harvest produces one benefit for me: the screams of joy as my
children leap into the mountains of crisp, dry leaves I have
collected. Begging to be covered with more organic insulation, my
children tunnel beneath the mounds until, when they lay quietly, no
one on earth can imagine life among the camouflage of color.
And I realize for the first time, my harvest does have a payoff:
the priceless joy of playful happiness, redeemable only by a father's
presence.