Christmas Tree Season
The best way to keep warm in the blustery winter is to wear pajama pants under your jeans.
Thermal underwear gets too itchy sweat-saturated
During the week I shoulder trees up inclines, between the plots of rows
with Paul Bunyan might until there’s no sun left.
Douglas fir needles prickle my neck as we bind them up,
our strained backs and sticky sappy fingers hoist them onto the truck.
At a time closer to Christmas, we’re in a Ford pickup, listening to country music,
uncontested, looking forward to the downtime between winter and spring, a distant thing
We’re wrapped up in holiday and hot cider as we make our way back to the carriage house
to clock out, putting weathered boots and sun-faded work shirt on sudden hiatus
Pumpkin Disposal
Ankle-deep in pumpkin guts, I’m leaning on the top railing of the rusty International Harvester dump truck trying not to slip. I stand amongst seeds, pulp, hunks of orange, some still stuck to my pitchfork, all of it smelling absolutely rancid. We just made our rounds through the vast acreage, stabbing the hideously rot-disfigured pumpkins in the patches with our forks, tossing them up to the truck bed for future disposal.
That’s why I’m here now, riding along, waiting to reach the dump area by the woods. We make a tour of the farm, driving past machine-tilled fields where strawberries once grew, pass a tin of Skoal and gripe about our job without really meaning it. Once we get there, my coworkers and I will make quick work of the goop, scraping it and kicking it until the dump truck only smells like rotten pumpkin.
Chemicals and Mulch
The spring planting season offers the most variety.
If we aren’t spraying chemicals on berries to help them grow,
we are spraying chemicals on tree stumps to make them disappear
I love wearing the spray pack on my back, sloshing about with power
I’m an American soldier in Vietnam, blasting farm jungles with napalm, obliterating everything
The only downside is leakage
The caps that seal the tanks shut don’t lock tightly
Several times I’ve gone home to realize my shirt and upper back are stained blue.
We joked about sterility.
Finished spraying and planting for the season, we mulch.
Perfect doughnuts of wood chips from Christmas trees past.
Wheelbarrows brimming with moist mulch ease down slopes,
knees bent, the vertical hill of Hell Block, cleaning up a tipped-over load
Hands filthy with soil, knees crusted with dirt and dew, time past
with friends and amigos (migrant workers).
Northeast Lot & Terry’s Sunscreen’d Nose
October weekends are comprised of parking cars in grassy lots and filtering through contradicting work orders. During weekdays its simple, there’s a clear Jones hierarchy we follow - from Will1 up to Terry. On weekends however when everyone has a walkie talkie clipped to their belt loop, it becomes exponentially more challenging.To meet the seasonal retail demands, Jones’ brings in their cast of part-time workers: people who are retired or who otherwise enjoy low-pay weekends of standing around. With four separate parking lots to maintain, the help is essential. Without (superseding) our guidance, customers will completely erase the parking system we have in place. Even with freshly spray painted lines in the grass and blue plastic barrels, people still find a way.
At the northeast lot (the one closest to the entrance from the road) I work with Leroy, his arm in a sling from some recent camping trip disaster; a smiling gentleman to mothers, young kids and me, but a short fuse to anyone attempting to circumvent his specific parking orders.“Park them tighter,” he barks from the entryway as I run back in my faded Dayquil-orange vest, pointing a rolled-up flag of the same color, motioning with my free hand towards an empty row.This could be the greyest line I’ve ever had to deal with; park them too spaced and Leroy loses his mind, park them too tight and customers give me a cranberry-faced, vein-bursting piece of theirs. but as sure as Jerry Hoot signs my paychecks, I park frazzled customers side mirror-to side mirror and deal with the subsequent fallout with top shelf faux-sympathy.
A radio request asks Leroy to send some extra hands over to the main lot. Reluctantly I walk off in that direction, shaking my head in silent laughter as I catch a peek of Terry’s white sunscreen’d nose reflecting traffic in the adjacent northwest lot.
Goldtooth Bob and the 3 Santas
Bob’s leadership isn’t so bad, despite what Leroy says. His Dodge pickup is always stashed with water bottles and various munchies and he works smart, though he could stand to squelch some of his radioing. He and the 3 rugged retirees who resemble like Santa Claus make easy work of the main lot, the one furthest from the road and closest to the pumpkins, painted holiday-themed wood displays and the cash registers. Employees call this “Retirement Lot,” as there’s no running around, no heavy thinking; a simple lot where people generally just park themselves. Boring.
The Great Downed Christmas Tree Hunt
Santos and I spent 4 hours in competition with each other finding downed trees on the farm. It was okay because Jamie Jones sent us on the mission. It’s surprising how many people saw down trees just to discard them upon finding imperfection. On a farm with 200 acres Christmas trees the losses are pretty minimal though and the trees become spring’s mulch.We’ve split up from each other and have taken the mountains and man-made forests on foot.Though impossible to get lost, the Ansel Adams landscapes offer beautiful distraction. Disarming hillsides of balsam firs and blue spruces make me pine for warm mugs of hot chocolate, frothy with cream. I stumble across orphaned trees on my hike and I note their corresponding blocks and keep trekking on for hours until Santos calls and concedes defeat. Or maybe we tied; either way he’ll still drive me home.
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