Harvest

The best name of any musical group we saw at the Oregon Country Fair? Hobo Nephews of Uncle Frank. Not quite as good as my all-time favorite band name: Dirtclodfight. That has nothing to do with this blip - I just felt like reporting it.

Harvest time is coming on. While we're still waiting on our tomatoes to show up in earnest, Tom (her real name is Jody, by the way) harvested about 30 pounds of carrots today.

We stopped yesterday at a fruit stand outside of Salem and picked up a few peaches. A sign on the peach flats said, "The peaches are ripe. PLEASE DON'T TOUCH THEM!" A kid about 16 manned the cash register and pretty much dared me to touch the New Havens. I wanted to feign a squeeze to their sweet flesh, but I was pretty sure he would have gnawed off my hand at the wrist. I thought about blipping the sign, but I was certain he'd smash my iPhone under the heel of his hobnailed boot, or toss it under his John Deere harvester. Come on, dude; it can't be THAT bad. Lighten up, peach boy! You're selling peaches for goodness sakes. Sour.

In spite of the poor kid sentenced to a summer denying the fondling nature of summer fruiters, we love harvest time.