Harvest

Fall has long been my favorite season. I especially like those brisk, windy days that blow away the summer’s languor and freshen the air with the promise of crisp, cool nights and quiet evenings by the fire. It’s harvest time, when the abundance of the land blows me away. I’ve never lived on a farm — and in fact only visited one once or twice — but I imagine it’s thrilling to bring in the harvest and revel in the rewards of hard labor and the magic of growth.

Harvest comes in the fall and looks like this, at least if you're an artist selling to Target or WalMart:

But not here in CT. Not here on Peck Hill Road anyway. Here, harvest looks like this:

We live next to land owned and protected by the South Central Connecticut Regional Water Authority. They are perfect neighbors, as their land will never be developed. Acres and acres and acres of woods abut our house and provide long and lovely walking trails for us and the dogs as well as habitat for deer, foxes, coyotes, wild turkeys, owls and an arkful of other friends.

Well over a year ago, maybe two, this sign appeared on a tree at the end of the water company property:

Seemed like a good idea to us; I figure thinning the herd is good for people and for forests. The same day the sign went up a huge piece of “tree equipment” was parked at the top of the trail.

There is sat for weeks until one day it was removed. Not a tree had been cut, not a branch trimmed. The sign remained; the promised work remained just that: only a promise.

Then last week the equipment was back and this time two men with chainsaws could be heard doing their business. It was 12 degrees the first day we saw them. There’s at least a foot of snow on the ground.

It’s gotten colder since, and snowed twice more, but they have returned several times. Their handiwork is visible everywhere I look:

Harvest in New England I guess. Not lettuce, but lumber. Not waving fields of wheat, but shuddering giants felled by metal teeth and gasoline. Why now, in this weather? Who the hell knows.