Trickling Time in Timaru

Today is an overcast day. I woke early this morning at about quarter to seven. I knew I had a full day of work ahead of me before my hosts returned from their festival in Blenheim. I had moved from my bedroom to the coach in the living room since they left. Something about being in a more central part of the house made me feel less alone. I could also put on the stereo to fall asleep. The amber streetlight would spill in through the top of the large French doors not covered by the curtains. The coach is pea green, fuzzy, and its arms slowly slope upward toward the end to create a snug little bowl to lie in. I spent Friday and Saturday night tucked in cozily and listening to music, succumbing to sleep before the midnight hour.

So I woke early today. I got up, relieved myself and put on a pot of coffee before climbing back into my nest on the couch, grumbling at the grey skies. Checking the weather online I see this morning is supposed to rain. Just great. I have a ton of berries to pick this morning and one thing strawberries don’t like, is getting picked in the rain. But I haven’t much of a choice now do I? So I get up and pour my coffee before it’s quite ready and eat a slice of toast with raspberry jam in four large mouthfuls. I decide without going outside that it’s going to be chilly enough to wear long sleeves. So I pull on my orange fleece over my white tshirt, slip my bare feet into my sneakers and opening the large sliding glass door out the back. I decide this morning’s soundtrack will be Kill Bill and as I push the thin, slightly broken, road bike down the driveway Nancy Sinatra begins to croon. Pedaling out into the street the drizzle begins to worsen and soon I’m glowering under my brow out at the roadway. I was right about the temperature, the rain brings that cool that summer rains do, that give you just enough of a shiver to be uncomfortable.

By the time I get to the farm I’m fairly damp. Good thing I’m wearing my bathing suit, which I haven’t changed out of in the past 3 days.

I proceeded to pick 21kgs of strawberries. For those of you either unfamiliar with kilograms, strawberries, or the relationship between the two. 21 kgs is literally a mountain of strawberries. My back would like to mention that it’s quite sore.

The foul weather and the resistance of the strawberries to be nicely picked wore my patience down to a sliver. “Fuck berry picking” I thought. My hosts had mentioned a few days ago that people from the city would pay to be able to go outside and pick berries for a while. And it’s probably true, but the operative clause there is “for a while”. And, I tried to remember that I’d be appreciating the outside time, while I was wishing I was home and had a ‘normal’ job. This may be a thing of the past soon enough I thought.

The one positive of the morning was the weeding I had done yesterday looked quite nice this morning. The aisles between rows and rows of strawberry plants looks clear and clean. One thing I’ve noticed about farmers is that they rarely get everything done, completed or put away. There are always dozens of unfinished projects lying about a farm and forlorn tools that were doing who knows what. What needs to get done, is redefined and most certainly in sense always gets done. But the state of affairs around the farms I’ve been on have been a loosely controlled chaos. Especially when the ‘farm’ house is also being renovated. It looks like their lives are in shambles. But somehow it operates on the day to day. So I tidied up the house a bit as well, more for my sake than my hosts. But you all already knew that didn’t you?

A week seems like a long time.

And to leave you all with a smile, my lunch yesterday was a bowl of vanilla ice cream and two beers.