Tamarack Pines

The Tamarack Pines have burst in to flame this past week. Everywhere I look the forest is bright with their golden beauty. Fall has come in full force here in my little hollow with the pines and birch competing for the brightest colors. Icy crisp mornings turn golden in the afternoon. There are still a few Shaggy Mane mushrooms bold enough to poke their heads above the frosty lawn but the smell of snow is in the air and I think it will not be long before we are again in a winter wonderland.

My harvest is mostly finished. Ruth is bringing apples this weekend, which means that sometime in the coming week or so, I will go to my parent’s house to “do applesauce.” My sister-in-law Mae, who is beginning her own journey into the world of food preservation, will be joining us for the first time this year. Yesterday, despite a wicked head cold, I cleaned out the freezer to make room for a hundred pounds of elk meat coming from the meat processor. This courtesy of Kevin’s hunting partner Craig. While cleaning, I found three lone quarts of raspberries sent to me last year by Aunt Nancy and made them into jam.

The bulbs have been planted, the pots put away and the garden hoses stored. I’ve still a little work to do in the garden, but it feels good to be wrapping up the season as fall temperatures drive us more and more indoors. The forest glen below my house has taken on that special fall smell that so drew me to our property… an odd mixture of Christmas tree, rain, wood smoke and frost. It always makes me think of forests and camping…a smell of my childhood. To be completely honest, I have to admit that because of my cold, I can’t really smell it right now, but the air does feel crisp and cold in my nose. It's the perfect temperature outside, for a warm cup of cocoa.

Harvest

I wonder if the word ‘harvest’ has much meaning for most Americans in our society today. I imagine that most would envision fall, Thanksgiving maybe, Halloween and pumpkins, autumn colors: green, gold, orange and red. For me and other gardeners and farmers however, the word conjures a completely different meaning. Namely, lots of hard work.

My grandfather was a farmer. He grew wheat, potatoes, mint, alfalfa, flowers and gardens. For my grandfather, harvest was a backbreaking, never-ending, daily grind. As a child, I remember harvest times as great fun. Mint harvest was my favorite. It meant riding on the combine behind my grandpa, watching great rows of green as they were picked up and shot into the truck we were towing. April would drive the truck and sometimes she would let me ride with her. I felt so grown up riding with her because she let me shift the truck as we slowly wound our way up and around Haystack Butte to the mint still. I remember the sharp, eye burning, nose tingling, overpowering smell of mint when you went in the still, the ancient refrigerator where everyone kept their lunches and the drizzle of gold coming from the trucks into great metal barrels. One summer, my aunt and uncle stayed in a travel trailer out back of the still. They had a cocker spaniel puppy named Tuffy who loved to bite my toes. That summer my aunt and I painted the still doors a lovely pea green. I was six. It was 1974.

My grandfather has been dead for many years and harvest has new meaning for me. I’ll probably never know it as the chore it was for him, but I can now more fully appreciate the work it entails. The harvest work that links me to every ancestor who harvested before me is part of my family’s legacy. It links every mother, father, grandmother, and grandfather who harvested, canned, or froze the fruits of a summers’ garden. It links my family as we get together to share the labor of canning salsa and shucking corn with all those who came before. And despite all the hard work, I realize how lucky I am to have such a wonderful gift from them.