For most New Jersians living through our “Extreme Drought Conditions,” this means watching their lawns slowly fry or their water bills climb sky high, but at Cutts Brothers Cranberry Farm, it means an unprecedented slowdown while we wait for water to trickle into each bog. It takes two levels of water for the steps of harvesting: first, enough to cover the tops of the vines so the beaters can separate the berries from their delicate stems; then, an extra 8-12 inches, enough for the berries to float freely above the tops of the plants, and for the containment boom to cross without catching on the tops of the plants.
I know, that’s a lot to visualize. If you can’t, trust me: water level matters. Normally there is enough for us to be picking in one bog and pumping out in the next simultaneously. So, this season when there are day-long delays for water flow, I’m feeling especially anxious about completing harvest in the window allowed by our cooperative. This is on top of my regular worries for safety of family workers and keeping our aging equipment running one more season.
For example, on Friday we had quite a series of unfortunate events that pushed the boundaries of “normal worries.” The Bobcat wheel motor went bad and had to be brought in for repairs; on the journey the axel on the trailer carrying it broke!
Do you feel my stress and anxiety?
On the day we are prepping the 20-acre bog—and in case you are wondering, that is a substantial piece of ground to harvest—a rumor is floating around that we are going to try separating the bog into sections prior to picking. Apparently, the new mower used to chop down the grass on the unharvest-able parts made quite a pile of fine straw the harvesters wish to keep separated from the berries. Word on the street is we will use extra containment boom to make compartments of the bog. Never mind the parable of the wheat and tares being separated after the harvest. We’re making the cut beforehand.
Autumn, Jessica, Arielle, and I (previously dubbed “Ernie’s Angels”) are on a dam hauling chain-filled 50- and 100-foot sections of boom into some semblance of order while wondering, “Exactly what is the plan?” Big Farmers Number 1 and 2 have told us we’ll have to ask Zeke and Shawn what’s going on, and Zeke tells us he doesn’t know either. That leaves Shawn to be the man with a plan, and he is on his way from the other side of the property.
While I’m squatting and pulling the dreadful black boom, using muscles that haven’t been awake in over a decade, I make jokes about how other women have to pay big money to get this workout at a fancy gym, while here we do it for free! Behind us the bog is still mostly dry but gradually water inches up. Shawn arrives and confesses to us he only has a vague idea of how this task might be accomplished without the aid of flotation. He and Zeke begin discussing how we might lay the boom into place. The other Angels head my way to hear what’s going on, and Shawn tries to explain the map in his head. He bends down and draws a large rectangle in the dirt, reminiscent of Jesus writing on the ground surrounded by Pharisees trying to trick Him. I turn to the approaching Angels and hold out my palms reassuringly. “Don’t worry! No one has been caught in adultery.”
Autumn tilts her head, knowing this sounds familiar. “Wait, I don’t think I read that one. The Scarlett Letter?”
I laugh at her, “It’s in the Bible!” Then we both talk at once, “You did read that one.”
“Oh, yes I read that one.” We laugh long enough to let Shawn and Zeke finish a plan, one that proves to be a miserable way to spend the day.
We wind up toiling in the 20-acre bog two more days, followed by continuing calamitous conditions: the berry pump giving up the ghost and having to be replaced, the cleaner elevator breaking multiple times, the hydraulic pump on the blower tractor blowing out twice, the fuel truck having an electrical meltdown, the well motor shutting down, and the lift pump having shot bearings. . .
We finally get on a roll and are squeaking by with enough action to host a few tour groups. Women from the Farm Bureau join me on top of the cleaning machine and appreciate my birds’-eye-view: the beauty of a crimson pool contrasting with blue skies and evergreen forests. I holler above the noise of pumps and engines below, while plunging my hands into the cedar water, pulling up vines and grasses free from the separators. “Want to help me? Feel free to stick your hands in.” One guest’s eyes sweep the vista and she replies, “Oh, I could do this all day!”
Well, sister, I do, I mentally smirk.
Farm-life may be fraught with problems of Biblical proportions, but I remind myself not to take for granted the uniquely beautiful life it’s my privilege to enjoy.
Your Turn: Have you ever wanted to put on a pair of waders and help the cranberry farmers? What do you think it might be like?
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