The Purge of the Persimmons

It was an ordinary morning. A light breeze rustled through campus, carrying the fallen autumn leaves past the unsuspecting doorsteps of the Iberian Studies Center and Hammarskjold. The ten o’clock student class rush had come and gone, and those who were awake were now busy trying to stay awake in class. Only moments ago they had strolled beneath the lush bulging canopy behind their houses, taking the dangling treasures above for granted, not even taking a second to glance upward.

            Needless to say, the time was ripe.

            A cloud poured over the sun and darkness fell over the Iberian Studies Center and Hammarskjold. A cold fog quietly flooded the block, enshrouding the houses in mystery and filling the spaces between the branches and trees.

            From no particular source, silent figures began to appear from every which way, hunched shapes little more than shadows. They carried with them sharp hooked claws on extended stakes and empty sacks hung from their shoulders. They wasted no time.

            Arms groped through the fog into the canopy, only reaching back to their source when their clammy fingers firmly groped the squishy golden and red sweetness above. The only sounds were the continuous snaps from above as persimmons and pomegranates were extracted from their nestled homes in the trees, the occasional cackle that wisped from beneath the downturned head of a mysterious gleaner, and the drip-drop of the thick pomegranate blood as it ran down their faces and arms and splashed on the pavement with jubilant gore.

            The trees spilled their riches and the sacks claimed what was lost until they bulged with fruity dankness. But not even the many fruits could satisfy the gleaners’ righteous greed. They crawled horribly to the front of the houses that stripped the branches of the rosemary growing there.

With nothing left but sullen lonely bushes and trees, the Iberian Studies Center and Hammarskjold began to notice something treacherous afoot. A nameless face was seen at one of the windows and its mouth dropped in horror, realizing what had been done, what had been stolen.

“Why?” it gasped.

The fog began to recede and the shadows with it. It was too late for the folk of the Iberian Studies Center and Hammarskjold. One gleaner turned in her retreat to answer, nothing more than a hunched silhouette.

“We are the gleaners of the greedy, and the givers to the poor! What’s grown but unenjoyed we shall purge!”

Pomegranites, Apples, and Quinces, Oh My!

Last weeks glean was a quickie but a goodie.

The member turnout was sparse but more than enough, with most of our volunteers being freshmen. 

We headed off the Flo Mo apple tree first thing, while the other group hunted down some quince. 

The apples were crispy ripe and bountiful, leaping from the branches at the slightest nudge and waiting for us in heaps at the trunk of the tree. 

Although they were mostly small, they built up to a few hefty sacks in no time at all.

            Behind the grove we scavenged the fruits of a pomegranate tree that sagged under the weight of its bulging branches. 

We quickly filled some sacks, but in the meantime we couldn’t resist a sampling of the bloody fruit, and soon enough red splatters covered had stained our clothes while the gorey juices ran down our lips and forearms.

            For the lack of variety that we encountered, our final fruit count was enormous, and another fruitful glean behind us.

Chamberlain Farm

Our excursion to the Stanford Farm began at 10 am. After gathering before Robely, our brigade commenced its journey to the far corner of campus that the Stanford Farm resides at.  

            At the farm, it soon became clear that our work would be done at the Chamberlain Farm, not the Stanford Farm. While weaving our way through the student and faculty plots, we encountered a feisty bunch of hens, angrily squawking as we marched by, and also a very rare breed of psychedelic dino kale.

            Page’s plot was bulging with life. The first task was to unearth a few mysterious tubers that had been sequestered from tree’s prolific green thumb.

 What we thought were Jerusalem artichokes turned out to be beastly lumps of preposterously shaped, potatoe-esque root vegetables. 

We later found that they were Andean Yocan, a rare tuber best served raw and cold.

            Others busied themselves with beans and the last of the summers tomatoes. Apples seemed to appear from nowhere as well, although I don’t believe they came from Pages plot.

            Actual potatoes were harvested too, which had been developing like tumors in makeshift chicken wire planter. Somehow their mud caking coats made them more appealing looking. 

Free Farm

The 45 minute drive to the free farm acts as a slow build up through the municipal desert to the metropolitan oasis of the Free Farm. 

We gathered before the gate in the early morning and unloaded the humble fruits of our previous glean. Although we were proud of our gatherings, they were nothing, in terms of amount and commitment, in comparison to the farm before us.

            While Pancho, as much as an official as exists at the Free Farm, filled us in on the history of project, we were distracted by the explosion of vitality that sloped down and away from us. Nestled in the heart of San Francisco, the Free Farm sprouts out between the piles of concrete and metal around it, taking on the appearance and aura of a meditation garden separated from the bustle of the bay. And that is exactly what it is; as volunteers wandered in, Pancho invited us to join in on a silent walk through the herb labyrinth. 

In a slow procession we wandered the garden, a silent process that provokes the deepest of breaths and gratitude without exception, and perfectly crowned with an engrossing hug from Pancho.

            We spent the remainder of the day harvesting the products of the summer season’s growth and planting the fall and winter crops. While I busied myself with some curious earthly tumors that tree informed me were called sun chokes, others cleaned various vines of their bulging bean pods and cherry tomatoes.

 In the meantime, garlic was pressed into the ground for their slow crawl into maturity.

            Lunch time was preceded by a group circle around the heap of freshly harvested fruit while tree explained the goals of the farm.

 Far from only providing a source of fresh food to the inhabitants of the Tenderloin, the idea behind the Free Farm was to introduce a sentiment of community into an area of the city that is defined by its haphazard destitution and criminality. 

In a place so entrenched in caution, the Free Farm would be a place where one can at last ease there tensed muscles, close their eyes, and breath. If it is not yet the soul of the community, anyone would agree that they hope it will soon become it.

          After lunch, focus turned to the Free Farm Stand, which had developed a line of eager clientele. We were happy to see the fruits of our glean go quickly. 

The sun chokes didn’t fair so well, although some of their curious shapes were appreciated.