Sweet harvest: Notes from the farm
As soon as the nights dip into the 30s and frost threatens, my brother Henry drops everything and calls all hands to come help dig up the sweet potatoes.
As I leave my house to answer the call, I watch a hairy woodpecker work away at the already large holes he’s made in the dead oak off the north side of the house. They are two or three inches in diameter—big enough so that he can perch on the rim and tip his whole body up and over the edge and into the hole to find some delicious grub. Mostly, though, he is patient, quiet, and still—waiting for the bug to make the first move, then levering himself in for the kill.
When I pick up the binoculars he seems to glance over his shoulder at me—one large eye fearlessly piercing my two assisted ones. Then he turns back to his waiting, and I to my watching. He is harvesting too, using these last warm days to stock up on food for winter—the same as we are—although he packs it on as body fat while we pack it in our freezers, cupboards, basements, and root cellars.
