26 July 2017
"Beer, how are you buddy?"
It was my blueberry guy. Sitting in the shade. In an incomparably dirty plastic lawn chair. His only company a halo of black flies. I see him every summer.
"How many pounds you want?"
Told him 30 would do.
He pulled his cell phone from a pocket and asked someone on his farm to fetch 30 pounds.
"They will not be long," he told me. "We will have glass wine while we wait. Take chair."
I sat in the equally dirty chair.
Soon my patience and annual patronage was rewarded with a tall milk glass of cold blueberry wine.
"The last of last season's wine," he informed me. "Very good."
So good we had more than one glass.
We talked. Would I like to buy his farm. NDP government very good. My son shot dead. 24.
Hate and war has taken a lot of men's sons here in Dope City.
"Fucker probably deserved to die," some might say.
That was not what my farmer's eyes said.