The harvest she worked for was hard earned. She rose with the sun and retired with the stars. Life as a harvester was hard. Sundays were the only reprieve from hard manual labor. June brought strawberries. July brought string beans and peas. In August the corn ripened and needed to be put away. The sun greeted her unwilling eyes after cleaning strawberries till well after midnight. Yet the harvest awaited, ripening in the fields. Another day of picking till the sun went down. Another evening of cleaning and preserving the harvest, till she fell asleep in her chair.
Yet all the work turned into reward throughout the year. Every meal brought with it the taste of amazingly fresh sweet corn or green string beans, peas, carrots and strawberries. With it came the memory and appreciation of the intensive labor behind all that “home grown” represented.
Worlds collide with he who comes to offer his dimes and quarters. He who knows no toil, nor aching back. It’s free, it’s free, he cries with glee. The food is free and it’s fresh out of the field: one only pays at eh supermarket. He stuffs his obesity, delights in the taste for only a moment and discards the remains. But he is the saddest of all creatures, for he has eaten and cannot be filled. He eats and is not satisfied. He tries to buy his sustenance, gets it for free but is yet not full enough. His obesity flaunts his dilemma shamefully. He fills himself off the sweat of the poor. He is by all counts the most miserable of creatures.
But the laborer, she has her reward. The satisfaction of her labor is enough.