The times they are a changin'

It’s autumn.  The fog hangs low in the morning, slowly dissipating with the warmth of the subdued afternoon sun.  Festive red, yellow and orange colors are eye candy as we walk the trails, drive the country roads, and rummage in the garden.  The fallen leaves that crunched under the weight of my bike now crunch under my crutches.  Pumpkin fields dot the landscape. How can I choose just one to carve?  Huge crates overflow with an abundance of colorful gourds enticing one to touch.  How many can I bake?  It’s a time to snuggle in, to stay inside where it’s warm and cozy with the spiced scent of pumpkin cookies permeating the space.  It’s a time to turn inward after our active summer, a time to let my new hip replacement heal, a time to catch up on good books, a time to plan our trip south.  I love this season.     

     

 

 

Strawberry fields forever?

Maybe not.  We rode our bikes on a 19-mile round trip over hill and dale along bucolic country roads to Sakuma Bros. Field #2. Large, red letters and an arrow spray painted on a sheet of plywood pointed into the dusty field.   Sakuma Bros. had just received notice from a local judge that they were required to provide housing for not only their migrant workers but also the families of their workers.  Sakuma responded that they could not afford the expense of housing families.  The workers disappeared and rather than allowing the jumbo, juicy, sweet, red berries to rot in the fields, Sakuma opened the fields to the public.  It was a five-day free-for-all.  Moms, dads and kids came to pick as much or as little as they liked without charge.  We rode to a row, took our containers from our paniers, bent over and started picking.  In less than half-an-hour our containers were filled and our backs were killing us.  Content with a couple of pounds needed for jam, we carefully layered our containers in our paniers, clipped into our pedals and turned west toward home. Riding past the deserted housing complexes, we thought about the migrant workers who used to settle in for the season.  Who will be around next year to do this back-breaking work day after day? Without a workforce, the fields won’t be planted and the thousands of pounds of berries that are flash frozen and shipped around the world will be a mere memory.  The company loses, the workers lose, the local economy suffers.  Surely we can figure out immigration laws that work for everyone.  Otherwise, strawberry fields will exist only in the lyrics of a once popular song.