Sunday morning at the produce farm

I grew up in a highly agricultural state.  However, mostly I was surrounded by crops destined to become grain or seed or cow feed or other things--designed to be harvested by big machines, nothing that you'd put on your table directly.  Sorghum, alfalfa, corn... Yes, I realize that latter thing can be picked and eaten; you don't have to remind a girl from Nebraska.  But there weren't a lot of U-pick places for corn.  And nowhere near me did anyone grow fruit.

Moving to Michigan I was just amazed by this concept of U-pick farms, that you could go to some farm and pick your own cherries, raspberries, strawberries...  wow.  You'd think I grew up in a concrete-covered metropolis. 

Since my son was small, raspberry picking has been an annual outing.  This year, we finally hit the nearby strawberry farm.   We headed out this morning while my husband was still sleeping, and in short order picked a ton.

We had so much fun.  Now, to find some recipes.  I gave all my canning equipment away after my friend Ruth left town--she was the one who would come over and help me wreck my kitchen while we made pickles and jam.  Without her, I just couldn't get motivated, so I craigslisted the stuff and bid it farewell.

I could probably use some jelly jars about now....

The best conversations I have all day

I try to be a compassionate person.  This is called into play frequently on the streets of Ann Arbor, where we have an active panhandling population.  I am aware of the complicated issues of homelessness and mental illness and the other factors which often correlate with asking for money off passersby.  I don't like being asked for money, and I don't usually give it.  But I have, in the past, handed over food, engaged in conversation, even gotten to know a few of the regulars by name.  It's generally my policy to respond politely, even when I'm not handing over anything, and to look them in the eye when I do so and address them like the humans they are.

But still, working downtown like I do, I get tired of it.

One day, espying a homeless fellow up the block, I impulsively whipped out my cell phone as if it had just rung, and immediately was engrossed in an intense--and entirely faked--conversation with the nobody on the other line.  And this, of course, gave me an immediate "out" when passing by him.  I found I felt less guilty about the subterfuge than the guilt I sometimes feel about not giving them spare change.

Because I'm not entirely crazy, as soon as I was past him I put my phone away.  

I have repeated this strategy several times since.  Put the phone to the ear, look focused and intent, and speak in a way that discourages outside interference from a needy bystander.

Except now--here is my confession, people--I sometimes don't "hang up" when the ruse is no longer needed.  I just keep talking. 

These are some great conversations I'm having!   I enjoy long (if one-sided) conversations about all kinds of topics on which I pretend to be intensely interested and well-informed.  For example:

• Our imaginary contractor's imaginary bid for our imaginary renovation work.
• Our travel plans to increasingly exotic locales.
• My sage advice about how to get the fictional house bill out of committee and put to a vote, including knowing asides about my intimate knowledge of a certain pretend representative's personal biases on the invented issue at hand.
• Why I think the other side might be bluffing in their push for a trial in the imaginary legal entanglement that is currently before the make-believe law firm in which I practice.
• The latest article I am reviewing for the non-existent academic journal of which I serve as associate editor.

So satisfying.  The life I lead via phone is fascinating!  And I always have the last word.

I should probably be a little worried, but I'm not going to consider psychiatric intervention until I find myself pulling out the phone for fake conversations when there are no panhandlers around.