6 September 2010

The air was crisp and the wind smelled of fall today as I harvested all of the winter squash, pulled up the plants and hauled them to the compost, washed each squash and then dipped them in a diluted Clorox solution, put wire fencing around the trunk of each of the eighty saplings to keep the rodents from eating gnawing on the trees in the winter, and stripped four trees in Sedgwick—a nearby town—of their apples.

I’m going to be coming home early: a month from today, actually. Dad’s flying up on the sixth of October to ride back with me. We’re going to stop at Cornell and the University of Virginia on the way back to tour the schools and get more information about their PhD programs in literature. I found out today, though, that I have to be out of my apartment by the twenty-ninth of this month. There’s a couple from Vermont coming to take my place for the rest of the harvest, and they arrive on the second of October. Apparently, Tim and Leslie decided over the weekend that I needed to be out by that Wednesday in order for them to get the apartment cleaned and set up for the incoming couple before they arrive on that Saturday. I have three weeks to figure out what to do for that week that I’m left homeless. I’ve noted that there’s a women’s shelter in Ellsworth—a few towns over—and I’m only half-joking when I say it. I can’t exactly afford a hotel or anything on sixty dollars a week. I plan on asking Sally and Margaret if they would mind if I stayed with them, and hopefully that will work out.

Today when Tim and I got back from picking apples, I asked if I could have one of the butternut squashes that I’d harvested today. He told me of course, I could have my pick. I chose one out of the ten or so. It wasn’t the largest, by far, but it was a good-sized squash. I knew I would eat the entire thing, because butternut squash is my favorite squash. As I made my way back to my apartment, though, I heard Tim clear his throat. Uh, Ashlee, he said, I’d like for you to get a different one. Leslie and I will want to have that one. A little disbelieving—he had said I could have my pick—I made my way back over to the pile, put the one I’d selected back, and reached for a medium-sized squash. Tim cleared his throat again from behind me, so I stepped back and turned to him. Tell you what, I said, not bothering to keep the snarkiness from lacing my voice, why don’t you pick me out a squash that you don’t mind if I eat? He stepped around me, perused them, picked out the smallest butternut squash there was, and offered it to me. I looked at it, looked at him, looked at the pile of squash, looked at him, took the proffered vegetable, said Well, thanks, and then turned around and walked away. Next time, I’ll just go to the grocery store.