My dad was a school teacher.   Nevertheless, he felt a powerful urge to till, to plant, to harvest, to do something with the land.   So he got a small parcel of pasturage and turned it into a cornfield.   He spent his summers experimenting with organic methods of pest control, and the newest hybrids of corn.   He finally settled on Golden Jubilee for his sweet corn.   I don’t think the organic pest control ever worked to his satisfaction.   He closely watched the plants mature and did whatever was necessary.   Often as not, this involved Lady Bugs, or Preying Mantises.   Most of this didn’t make a lot of difference, since the neighborhood was all apple orchards.   If the neighbors sprayed, you got sprayed.   It is the way things were. 

Farming, even on so small a scale, promotes a respect for the land, and patience for what the land will provide.   A farmer knows that he only tills and plants.   The land grows the food; the land does the work.   The farmer harvests, then both the farmer and the land rest until next year.   The rhythms of the land, the seasons, and the years, are the cycle of life.   The spring means planting, the autumn means that life is full. 

So I am out tonight.   I imagine those long ago Septembers when every breath was heavy with the sweet smell of ripe apples.   Every orchard was filled with trees laden with fruit.   The branches were so heavy that the orchardists would prop up the trees with scrap pieces of lumber, or else the boughs would break from the weight of the fruit they bore.   It might have been possible to build a respectable, if somewhat irregular, house out of the lumber in use in a medium sized orchard. 

Even now, I pass though the place that was a neighbor's orchard.   The streetlights light the avenue well, and it is possible to do a modest inspection of each house I pass.   These houses have inherited the land only.   The bracing sweetness which fills my senses is from long ago.