This Side Up

In the season to grow comes a tragic loss

John Howell
Posted 3/31/15

Some things you never imagine as changing. Morris Farm is one of them, and no couple personifies farming more – even the one depicted in “American Gothic” by artist Grant Wood – than John …

This item is available in full to subscribers.

Please log in to continue

E-mail
Password
Log in
This Side Up

In the season to grow comes a tragic loss

Posted

Some things you never imagine as changing. Morris Farm is one of them, and no couple personifies farming more – even the one depicted in “American Gothic” by artist Grant Wood – than John “Pete” and Cindy Morris.

But now, that too has changed.

Cindy died in her sleep Thursday night. She was 68.

Cindy was always the flower at Morris Farm. And if Cindy was the flower, Pete was the tree.

She was always easily spotted with her flaxen hair bunched behind a red bandana. But it was her smile, no matter what, that brightened your day, even if the skies were laden, a chill in the air and the fields fallow and filled with muddy ruts. It was on such a day that I stopped by the roadside stand on Warwick Avenue. The place was closed, but from the moisture streaked greenhouses, I knew things were alive and growing. I wanted to see what spring would bring and tell the story that there is no such thing as a winter vacation for farmers.

The focus is on the bounty of the field rather than the labor that goes into making it making it happen.

It’s understandable. Memories of late summer afternoons when burlap bags filled with sweet corn crowd the back room of the stand and plump, juicy tomatoes the size of apples, summer squash, eggplant and zucchini are on display in baskets line the counter come to mind. These are times when the farm hums. The parking lot is full. Those lingering to get their corn gaze out on the beds of sunflowers, zinnias, dahlias and daisies, soaking in the color of summer or chat about the weather, how they have to cut the lawn or, as often the case, that their own attempts at gardening can’t rival what Morris has to offer.

And then, as the season progresses, the farm also changes in wonderful ways. The butternut squash and the pumpkins, like spectators lined up on bleachers, make their appearance. Mums of brilliant colors fill the yard in waves of yellow, purple and rusty red. Corn stalks are tied in neat bunches. Signs direct customers to the corn maze, and on weekdays, school buses stand idle as their cargo, like chicks following a mother hen, tour the farm and get to pick out a pumpkin before leaving.

The scenes are as fresh as if they were yesterday. That’s Morris Farm.

On this gray day between seasons when the farm was closed, I felt like an intruder. I needn’t have. Cindy materialized. She wore rubber boots and a heavy coat. Her smile told me I was welcome.

“You have to see the tomatoes,” she said with the enthusiasm of a mother wanting to show off her newborn. They were her babies. She led me into greenhouse. I breathed in the warm, humid air and the scent of tomato plants. She pushed back leaves to reveal tiny yellow flowers on some stems and green cherry-sized tomatoes on others. I snapped a few pictures and then we shared news of our respective families. Pete and Cindy’s children haven’t followed the path of their parents. There were never any regrets. Quite the opposite. Rather, they spoke proudly of their children’s achievements and the careers they had chosen.

Pete and Cindy faced crossroads, too. There was a time when developers enviously eyed all that land and thought of building houses, if not more shopping centers. It was a time when Pete and Cindy were caring for family and the money was needed. Pete knew what the farm meant to his parents. He wanted to preserve their legacy.

They chose a path that in one sense will keep the farm from changing. They kept the farm and sold the development rights. It was a commitment to abide by the cycle of the seasons while trading the potential long-term value of the land to meet immediate needs.

It is a choice that not only affected their lives but also the community. The farm would have been lost. It celebrates its 100th anniversary this year.

I will look for those green shoots of corn pushing up from furrows as I drive past Hendricken toward West Shore Road this spring. Later, with the arrival of warm weather, I will expect to see those balloon balls with their angry eyes to scare the birds. The stand is usually open by then with hanging flowers, beds of plants for transplanting and early vegetables such as lettuce and radishes.

I hope it won’t change, yet I know it will.

I’ll miss that flash of red and yellow and those words, “Let me show you,” followed by a visit to a field to see a horse, black Angus or dark velvety green leaves pushing through the black plastic designed to discourage weeds.

Cindy never lost the wonder of life, nor the desire to share it with others.

Comments

No comments on this item Please log in to comment by clicking here