Every winter, when things slow down a bit, I usually take on the glamorous job of cutting back tree lines.
And when I say glamorous, I mean cold fingers, dull chainsaw chains, branches smacking me in the face, and me muttering to myself about nature needing to mind its manners.
We have tree lines around a lot of our fields, and every year the trees try to creep just a little farther out. A limb here. A scrubby little tree there. Before you know it, the field edge starts closing in, and I’m out there trying to push it all back again. It’s just one of those jobs that never really ends. Nature is persistent. I’ll give it that.
This year, though, we added something new around two of our farms. We planted hay strips along the outside edges of the fields. There are a few reasons for that. First off, we need more hay for the sheep, and every bit helps. It also makes the fields nicer to work in because there’s a proper border around the crop. But the biggest reason is that we’re growing some special crops this year that will be used for seed by other farms next year, and it’s important to keep those fields separated from the neighbouring crops.
So there I was the other day, cutting hay along one of those new strips, driving along the tree line, probably thinking about the next ten jobs I was behind on, when I came up beside one of those scrubby trees I’ve been cutting back every winter.
Except this time, something was different.
Berries.
I stopped the tractor and climbed down for a closer look. Now, I may be a farmer, but I am no arborist. Or botanist. Or whatever the proper tree expert is called. But I do know a mulberry when I see one, mostly because I know what they taste like.
And there they were. Mulberries. Not just on one tree either. Several of them.
Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever had a fresh mulberry, but I’d bet a lot of people haven’t. They’re so soft and delicate that you’re not likely to find them sitting in a little plastic container at the grocery store. They’re not exactly built for shipping. A mulberry is the kind of fruit you have to meet where it grows.
And honestly, they might be my favourite berry.
The funny thing is, I don’t think I’ve ever really picked them myself before. When I was younger, a handful would just sort of appear. Usually from Dad. He must have known where there was a tree somewhere, some secret little spot he’d found over the years. He probably told me where it was too, but I was likely doing what kids do best - not listening.
So there I stood, beside this tree I had only ever seen in winter. In winter it was just a nuisance. Just another scraggly thing hanging out into the field, waiting for me and the chainsaw. But in June, with the leaves out and berries hanging there, it was something completely different.
I picked one and ate it right there.
And that’s when the thought hit me. Same tree. Same place. Same farm. The tree hadn’t changed at all. I had just only ever met it in winter, when it was bare and awkward and sticking out where I didn’t want it.
That kind of stopped me for a minute.
I stood there for a bit, looking down the tree line, and I don’t know… my mind wandered like it tends to do when I’m alone on a tractor. I started thinking how easy it is to decide what something is when we’ve only seen it in one season. A tree. A place or Maybe even a person.
Sometimes we meet things when they’re bare and prickly. Or in the way. Or needing a little more from us than we feel like giving.
And then, one day, if we happen to show up at the right time, we see something we missed.
I don’t suppose every scrubby tree is hiding mulberries. Some are probably just scrubby trees, and I’ll still be out there with the chainsaw next winter proving that point.
But this one made me pause.
Because every now and then, something you thought was only a nuisance turns out to have been quietly growing something sweet all along.
Farmer Rod
