An almost true memory of a young man who has grown up on a small farm.
The summer swelters, but the harvest is ready. A young man helps his farming father grapple with the weight of the tasks. The fields are dry and dusty, and the day-to-day struggles loom large. Yet amidst the dust and dirt, he sees Emily. She is radiant and apparently carefree while sunbathing nearby. Seeing her ignites a longing for something more than this life of hard labour. Can he break free from the chains of his reality? Will he find the courage to chase a future filled with hope?
Harvest Girl invites you to explore love, and the bittersweet essence of growing up against the hardship of the manual life.
Recently released on Kindle ownly. Short story and the first in a series of almost true memoir episodes from my own life
Each husk holds the dull golden grain within its dusty grasp. The warm breeze ripples across the field, creating waves of weaving stalks. The sky is almost cloudless, and the sun is already rapidly rising. I sit at the controls of the combine harvester, by the gate to the field. Our celestial companion is already burning my shoulders through my thin t-shirt. It's not that early, just before ten. We, Dad and I, wait for the dew to lift while completing the harvester's preparations. The warm air will soon dry the ground. We add oil, diesel fuel, and grease to their waiting tanks and sumps. The engine will be running hot today. The radiator's water level is checked and then topped to overflowing. Spare water, oil, and the grease gun go back into the machine's toolbox. Our own preparations of a hasty breakfast and strong tea preceded the vehicle's.
Last week, we checked and prepared the high temples that are the farm's barns. They are our banks of assets. Rats, mice, and pigeons may try to steal our goods. The lofts and spaces are ready to receive our offerings, long before the local chapel calls for donations. Other farm duties need to be completed before the harvest begins. Dad uncovered its winter tarpaulin and repainted some panels after scraping rust. Suddenly skinny, sheared sheep have had water tanks checked. I wheeled barrows of wood for the kitchen’s fire that feeds the range. Dad has counted the cattle in their meadow. I checked the two horses in an orchard. They are not our own and provide a small income for rental of the unproductive orchard. The trees' damson plums and apples won’t be harvested. There is no demand for the plums and little for the apples. There is neither the workforce available nor money to pay to pick the produce. The ladders and baskets once used lie rotting in a long overfilled shed that desperately needs rebuilding. The damsons were once in demand for cloth dyes. No more.
