A day of harvest may begin in the garden under burning sun, but it ends in the quiet hours of the night, desperately tired, hanging stalks to dry in lonely rooms, after the rest of the crew has long since retired to sleep.
The job of hanging often falls to the rare women on the harvest team. Here, we marched on into the night, finding delicate ways to weave each stalk on to the swaying racks, ensuring that the buds will dry and cure in a timely fashion, that the air conditioners have been emptied and that each strain is labeled and dated.
A repetitive and often solitary task, hanging is lent a somewhat methodical peace. Away from the general madness of harvest, the doors to daylight open only occasionally. Gradually, numerical time begins to lose meaning and be replaced by the tallying of totes hung and totes to be hung. Generally speaking, this number is rarely reliable, as it is entirely dependent on the harvester’s choice of which plants to cut, which to leave for another day. I would relay a message to my co-hanger in the early afternoon, only to have it be reversed, the night extended and the totes stack up.
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