14 • YOU CAN’T RUN AWAY
ON HARVEST DAY
SeptemberThe Saturday of Labor Day weekend dawned with a sweet, translucent
bite, like a Golden Delicious apple. I always seem to harbor a childlike
hope through the berry- stained months of June and July that summer will
be for keeps. But then a day comes in early fall to remind me why it should
end, after all. In September the quality of daylight shifts toward fl irtation.
The green berries on the spicebush shrubs along our lane begin to blink
red, first one and then another, like faltering but resolute holiday lights.
The woods fill with the restless singing of migrant birds warming up to
the proposition of flying south. The cool air makes us restless too: jeans
and sweater weather, perfect for a hike. Steven and I rose early that morn-
ing, looked out the window, looked at each other, and started in on the
time-honored marital grumble: Was this your idea?
We weren’t going on a hike today. Nor would we have the postsummer
Saturday luxury of sitting on the porch with a cup of coffee and watching
the farm wake up. On the docket instead was a hard day of work we could
not postpone. The previous morning we’d sequestered half a dozen roost-
ers and as many tom turkeys in a room of the barn we call “death row.” We
hold poultry there, clean and comfortable with water but no food, for a
twenty-four- hour fast prior to harvest. It makes the processing cleaner
and seems to calm the animals also. I could tell you it gives them time to