that blue sky now, that’s God’s sky. And up there in that vasty blue is God. But see how far away He is. See how far the sky. And look here, at the earth, see how close, how abiding and faithful it is. See this little valley of ours, see the bountiful harvest we’re to have. God’s fine, but it’s old Mother Earth that’s the friend to man.”
And corn was king. Foolish folk, she continued, on a cold night might insist on burning their cobs in the fire. Burn corn? Never. Return the corn to the earth, bury it, then, when the plowman turned the furrow in the spring, the tilth would come up rich and dark against the shear, a fertile soil willing to bear generously for whatever hand was put to the harrow. Love the earth and it must love you back.
“Yes,” she concluded thoughtfully, “we’ll have a bountiful Harvest Home.”
“Just what is Harvest Home?” I asked.
“Harvest Home?” She peered at me through her spectacles. “Why, I don’t think I ever heard a pusson ask that before. Everybody knows what Harvest Home is.”
“I don’t.”
“That’s what comes of bein‘ a newcomer. Harvest Home’s when the last of the corn comes in, when the harvestin’s done and folks can relax and count their blessin’s. A time o’ joy and celebration. Eat, drink, and be merry. You can’t have folks carousin‘ while there’s corn to be gathered, so it must wait till the work’s done. It means success and thanks and all good things. And this year’s the seventh year.”
“The seventh year?”
“Ayuh. For six years there’s just feastin‘ and carryin’ on, but the seventh’s a special one. After the huskin‘ bee there’s a play, and—well, the seventh year’s particular for us. Harvest Home goes back to the olden times.”
“When does it come?”
She looked at me again as if I were indeed a strange species. “Never heard a pusson ask that either. Harvest Home comes when it comes—all depends.”
“On what?” I persisted doggedly.
“The moon.” While I digested this piece of information, she pursed up her lips thoughtfully, watching as some birds flashed by. “Three,” she counted, observing their smooth passage through the sky. “And larks. Larks is a good omen if ever there was.”
“You believe in omens.”
“Certain. You’ll say that’s ignorant superstition, bein‘ a city fellow.” Most of the villagers, she continued, were descended from farmers who had come from old Cornwall, in England, more than three hundred years earlier, and the Cornishman didn’t live who wouldn’t trust to charms or omens: stepping on a frog would bring rain, wind down a chimney signified trouble in store, a crow’s caw might foretell death or disaster, and, she concluded, did I find all this odd?
“No,” I replied, “not particularly.” Being Greek, I knew about superstitions; my grandmother had been a walking almanac of “do”s and “don’t”s, including broken mirrors and hats on beds.
“Superstition’s just a condition of matter over mind, so t’speak. I’m a foolish old woman and I don’t see things so clear. Missy, now, she can see plain as well water.”
Again I saw the child’s dull but watchful eyes.
The Widow continued, “Take that collar button in the hog’s stomach. Missy’ll know for sure how to read it.”
“You mean it could be a bad omen?”
“Certain! It just depends. Still and all—” Her voice again took on a worried tone as she looked away over the brimming fields. “But what could go wrong now? Surely the crop’s grown? Surely we’ll have a bountiful Harvest Home? Surely God won’t take away what He’s promised the whole summer long. Look at the corn there, as fat and ripe as a man could hope for. Surely everything’s been done that a body could do? Surely seven years was penance enough?” Her rapid questions being, I assumed, strictly rhetorical, I could do no more than nod my head at each while I studied the mare moving in front of us. Yet
And corn was king. Foolish folk, she continued, on a cold night might insist on burning their cobs in the fire. Burn corn? Never. Return the corn to the earth, bury it, then, when the plowman turned the furrow in the spring, the tilth would come up rich and dark against the shear, a fertile soil willing to bear generously for whatever hand was put to the harrow. Love the earth and it must love you back.
“Yes,” she concluded thoughtfully, “we’ll have a bountiful Harvest Home.”
“Just what is Harvest Home?” I asked.
“Harvest Home?” She peered at me through her spectacles. “Why, I don’t think I ever heard a pusson ask that before. Everybody knows what Harvest Home is.”
“I don’t.”
“That’s what comes of bein‘ a newcomer. Harvest Home’s when the last of the corn comes in, when the harvestin’s done and folks can relax and count their blessin’s. A time o’ joy and celebration. Eat, drink, and be merry. You can’t have folks carousin‘ while there’s corn to be gathered, so it must wait till the work’s done. It means success and thanks and all good things. And this year’s the seventh year.”
“The seventh year?”
“Ayuh. For six years there’s just feastin‘ and carryin’ on, but the seventh’s a special one. After the huskin‘ bee there’s a play, and—well, the seventh year’s particular for us. Harvest Home goes back to the olden times.”
“When does it come?”
She looked at me again as if I were indeed a strange species. “Never heard a pusson ask that either. Harvest Home comes when it comes—all depends.”
“On what?” I persisted doggedly.
“The moon.” While I digested this piece of information, she pursed up her lips thoughtfully, watching as some birds flashed by. “Three,” she counted, observing their smooth passage through the sky. “And larks. Larks is a good omen if ever there was.”
“You believe in omens.”
“Certain. You’ll say that’s ignorant superstition, bein‘ a city fellow.” Most of the villagers, she continued, were descended from farmers who had come from old Cornwall, in England, more than three hundred years earlier, and the Cornishman didn’t live who wouldn’t trust to charms or omens: stepping on a frog would bring rain, wind down a chimney signified trouble in store, a crow’s caw might foretell death or disaster, and, she concluded, did I find all this odd?
“No,” I replied, “not particularly.” Being Greek, I knew about superstitions; my grandmother had been a walking almanac of “do”s and “don’t”s, including broken mirrors and hats on beds.
“Superstition’s just a condition of matter over mind, so t’speak. I’m a foolish old woman and I don’t see things so clear. Missy, now, she can see plain as well water.”
Again I saw the child’s dull but watchful eyes.
The Widow continued, “Take that collar button in the hog’s stomach. Missy’ll know for sure how to read it.”
“You mean it could be a bad omen?”
“Certain! It just depends. Still and all—” Her voice again took on a worried tone as she looked away over the brimming fields. “But what could go wrong now? Surely the crop’s grown? Surely we’ll have a bountiful Harvest Home? Surely God won’t take away what He’s promised the whole summer long. Look at the corn there, as fat and ripe as a man could hope for. Surely everything’s been done that a body could do? Surely seven years was penance enough?” Her rapid questions being, I assumed, strictly rhetorical, I could do no more than nod my head at each while I studied the mare moving in front of us. Yet
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