“It will ruin businessmen,” Ewing said.
“Not if it is done in stages, Father, which some people have suggested. It’s not a popular idea, but it is interesting, is it not, that a few people in a few places are thinking of such things?” Catherine added this as though of little consequence.
“I suppose.” Ewing folded his hands together across his middle. “The world is changing too fast for me. So many improvements, and then again, a falling away from the old ways. Such ideas will create turmoil.”
“Yes, they will,” John agreed.
Unbidden, Piglet came into the room. He stared right up at Catherine. They shared an enormous secret, a crushing burden.
Friday, July 29, 2016
“Me, Me, Me!” Pewter rolled around in the dirt by the barn, stopping to reveal way, way too much white tummy.
“I wouldn’t display that much fat if I were you,” Tucker yipped.
“I’m not you, Wormdog,” she hissed.
Holding a small boom with a sensitive mike, Deon Watts, the soundman, pleaded, “Is there any way to put up the animals?”
Harry, in a dark blue shirt in high contrast to her tall sunflowers, replied, “I can try, but they know the way in and out of everything. Let me see if persuasion will work.”
Rae Tait and Bethel Carson, the videographer, took a short break.
“Pewter, Tucker, shut up. If you don’t, this will be ugly and I’ll carry you back to the house and put you in the basement.”
Feeling Tucker was wrongfully chastised, Mrs. Murphy walked over to sit next to the dog.
“Brownie!” Pewter spat.
“Come on, Pewts, I don’t want to sit in the basement and neither do you.” Mrs. Murphy loathed the boring basement. Given their great hunting abilities, there weren’t any vermin in the basement to help pass the time.
Harry then tried her hand at direction. “If you shoot them there, together, then pan to the sunflowers, overlarge egos may be appeased. And then, of course, when we walk back to the barn, they’ll run ahead and that will make a good shot. Mrs. Murphy might even climb on a paddock fence and call to the horses. Never hurts to entertain a bit, does it?”
The three looked down at the animals, then to one another.
Rae shrugged. “Why not? If you can just keep them quiet. Let’s try this again. Take four.”
Ignoring the rising heat, Harry smiled at the camera. She turned away slightly, sweeping her hand toward the beautiful field of sunflowers. “This riot of color will be harvested in a few weeks, depending on rainfall and sunshine. The sunflowers will grow higher, the heads larger. No pesticides are used. The seeds are removed, placed in large sieves. We shake them out and divide by size once they are completely dried out. I’m surprised musicians don’t use the sound, softer than castanets but swishy.” She half giggled.
“Did she write this?” Pewter whispered.
“Shh.” Mrs. Murphy bumped Pewter, who sat on her haunches with Mrs. Murphy and Tucker.
Harry rattled on. The footage and soundtrack could all be edited down. From the sunflowers they shot footage of the Ambrosia corn and the Silver Queen, Harry explaining the difference in taste, the Ambrosia being sweeter. She discussed the types of pests, especially corn worms and blight. Corn spiders performed useful service against some of the pests, and she declared she lost about ten to fifteen percent of her annual harvest to damage because she refused to use pesticides. A few old pear trees were next, and Harry explained that she had no orchard but she wanted to keep some of the old varieties growing and healthy. She put her hand under a pear, large already.
“This is a Sewickly pear. Used to be acres of them in the forties and fifties, my dad said. Harder to grow, more susceptible to fungi and other things. They’ve been overtaken by Fuji pears and a few other types, all good, but we lose diversity.” She then walked to some appealing peaches, almost like a drawing, and continued, “These are Alverta peaches. The same story as the pears and”—she continued walking—“here are Black Twig apples.” She paused. “I don’t sell the fruit. I don’t have enough, but my friends and I use them, bake with them, and also can some. Each of these varieties has a distinctive taste, quite different from what you are accustomed to in supermarkets. I just don’t have the money or manpower to install a profitable orchard using the types from past centuries.”
“Cut.” Rae beamed. “This is fascinating. People will be interested. Can you tell me why this is important to all of us? Even though they are more difficult to grow, so to speak, what’s the payoff for the consumer?”
Harry nodded. The cats took the opportunity to climb up into the Black Twig apple trees closest to Harry. Pewter stretched herself along a branch, thinking a languid pose might look better than some old apples. More sensibly, Mrs. Murphy sat in the crook between the trunk and the first low, heavy branch.
“Rae, should we move the cats?” Bethel inquired.
Rae studied the new composition. “No. We can always cut it if we need to. I think this adds some fun to the enterprise. Okay, roll ’em.”
Harry leaned against the trunk. “The reason we don’t want to lose the old fruit trees is pretty simple. Yes, they may be more prone to certain types of pests, and yes, the fruit is usually not those huge red or green apples you see filling display boxes at the market. Often these varieties have a stronger taste, some sweeter, some tart, but the critical issue is diversity. What if a virus or fungus wipes out, say, Golden Delicious? It takes years to develop an orchard; the trees mature at their own rate and early harvests aren’t as good as later ones when the tree is in its prime. I see this as one of the most important issues in agriculture, the diminishment of diversity.”
“Cut,” Rae called out. “Harry, that was very clear. Something I never considered.”
Harry smiled. “People don’t live close to the land anymore. They take food products for granted. You know, it’s not like the American public is purposefully limiting their choices. They don’t know any better, and really, the big supermarket chains are determining the varieties. That’s how I see it. So naturally, a shopper will pick the biggest, shiniest red apple they can find or the roundest peach.”
Deon piped up. “I do.”
“Me, too,” Bethel added.
“Okay, how about a shot of your vineyard?”
“Great.” Harry headed toward her small vineyard and heard a cry and a plop.
“I told you not to stretch yourself on the branch,” Mrs. Murphy chastised Pewter, who had fallen out of the tree.
Despite her bulk, the gray cat had twisted so she didn’t land hard, but she didn’t land on all four paws, either. Her front paws hit the ground while her hind end sort of flopped down.
Hard at Harry’s heels, Tucker glanced back, deciding to keep a tight lip.
Arriving at the vineyard, Harry pointed to a low hill. “If you do a shot of me, whatever, you’ll be able to see the whole vineyard from that spot. This is only one-quarter of an acre, and when I planted the grapes, four years ago, it cost me fourteen thousand dollars. More expensive today. Your first year’s grapes you must leave on the vine. After that you can harvest, but the grapes aren’t at their best for a few years more, depends on the variety. Growing grapes is expensive, fraught with sorrows.”
Rae spoke. “Bethel, shoot this. And Deon, what we can do to add interest is do this section as a voice-over. Okay, shoot the close-up of the vines and then a tight close-up of the grapes. Let’s all go to the rise, where, Harry, talk to us again as you just did, but condense it if possible.”