{"id":2666,"date":"2026-08-13T06:47:37","date_gmt":"2026-08-13T10:47:37","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.gcc.mass.edu\/plum\/?p=2666"},"modified":"2026-08-13T06:47:37","modified_gmt":"2026-08-13T10:47:37","slug":"the-last-harvest-personal-narrative","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.gcc.mass.edu\/plum\/the-last-harvest-personal-narrative\/","title":{"rendered":"The Last Harvest Personal Narrative"},"content":{"rendered":"

\u00a0<\/span>Farming can make or break you as a person. It carves strength into your bones, teaching you the value of grit with every early morning and late-night chore. Each day demands your attention, whether you’re battling the elements, racing after escaping animals, or toiling in the unforgiving sun. You learn to push through exhaustion, face setbacks head-on, and take pride in the tangible results of your hard work, transforming not just the land, but yourself in the process.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>The summer of 2017 I found myself living out my \u201cDream\u201d of running a 150-acre cattle ranch in sunny California for the most ungrateful people I ever had the displeasure of meeting. Still, an opportunity is an opportunity, and in my life as a beggar, I never had the possibility to be a chooser. With cramped living conditions and long hours in the sun, the time passed on in a weary procession of laborious days and sleepless nights.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>July was always the worst month on the farm. Capay Valley would trap the summer heat around you like a thermal blanket you couldn\u2019t take off. By eight o\u2019clock in the morning temperatures would be well above one hundred degrees, sending beads of sweat down your neck for the most basic tasks. There was no escape, the type of heat that can destroy power grids, cancel schools, and even kill.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>The oppressive sun shone down for the seventh week straight of no rain, no wind, no break from the ever-monotonous procession of summer days. The hard earth cracked under the weight of my boots as I trudged through the wheat field to find my husband and go home for the day. Dust pooled at my feet as I stomped through the long dead weeds and brambles of the pasture in search of my husband. Nothing but blue sky for miles as the afternoon sun beat down heavily on my back.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>I found him near the far end of the field herding the cattle in for much-needed water and shade. Even the cows seemed tired, lumbering their hooves through the parched earth, heads dipped low into the clouds of dust filling the air, as if they cannot even be bothered to try to escape it.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>\u201cWell, if it isn\u2019t my favorite farmer.\u201d I called out to him from across the field.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>\u201cHey, sorry I\u2019m late, I couldn\u2019t get them to move,\u201d He motioned to the cattle, \u201cAlthough, I can\u2019t quite blame them, its miserable out here.\u201d He said removing his worn wide brimmed hat to wipe the sweat from his brow.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>We both took a moment to pause under the shade of an old oak tree while the cattle crowded around the various troughs happily slurping up the water. I felt the smallest inkling of a breeze sweep through my hair.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>\u201cAm I dead or is that a breeze? I swear I haven\u2019t felt the wind in weeks.\u201d I cried as I closed my eyes and reveled in the gentle wind against my hot skin. When I opened my eyes, something caught my attention that I did not expect. A small plume of smoke rising from the pasture across from us.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>\u201cAre you seeing what I\u2019m seeing?\u201d I exclaimed and pointed to the emerging grey cloud across from us. The moment we both realized what it was our hearts dropped and we exchanged terrified looks. It was every farmers nightmare, a fire in the hay field.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>\u201cGet in!\u201d My husband called to me already leaping into the driver\u2019s seat of the rusted-up farm truck. I jumped in and he stepped on the gas tearing through the pasture toward the impending conflagration. I called the farm owners who contacted the fire department, but we were out in the country, forty-five minutes from the closest emergency services, meaning we were very much on our own.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>By the time we arrived on scene, the flames were visibly starting to spread in every\u00a0 direction. The farm owners, Sarah, and Marc, pulled up in their trucks seconds after we\u00a0 reached the pasture. The wind began to kick up even more, working against us and\u00a0 sending the flames roaring. I felt the heat scorch my skin as I started to choke on the\u00a0 building smoke.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>\u201cRobin get over here! We need to open the wells it\u2019s our only chance!\u201d Marc yelled\u00a0 at my husband. Within seconds my husband was running to jump into the bed of his\u00a0 truck.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>\u201cRobin!\u201d I called after him, but it was too late, Marc was off driving through the\u00a0 flames now spreading at an alarming rate. My husband looked back at me, and we\u00a0 exchanged a momentary glance, before he was gone, disappearing into a wall of smoke\u00a0 and fire.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>From that moment on I wasn\u2019t sure if he was alive or dead, the bitter chaos of the\u00a0 events unfolding around me, forcing me to push past what I held most dear, to help the\u00a0 people and animals around me escape the pursuit of the spreading brush fire. Life and\u00a0 death decisions are the everyday bread and butter of the farmer. Determining what\u00a0 animals are going to harvest, workplace injuries consisting of missing extremities, looters\u00a0 trying to steal your flock in the middle of the night. A wildfire seemed almost like just\u00a0 another day.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>I tore off in the other direction with Sarah, to get the rest of the farm hands to help\u00a0 put out the blaze. Unfortunately, all our efforts were in vain. After the wind changed\u00a0 directions, the fire quickly spread through the pastures and up into the hills where it\u00a0 burned through the countryside for weeks. While other people were lucky enough to\u00a0 evacuate, we had animals to take care of, we would not just leave them to fend for\u00a0 themselves.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>After the second day the smoke stretched over the sky, cutting out any sunlight from\u00a0 the valley. On the fourth day my husband took a piece of raining hot ash to the eye and\u00a0 was temporarily blinded. One week after the fire started my husband came to me\u00a0 exhausted and covered with soot just finishing a twenty-four-hour shift.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>\u201cI don\u2019t know how much more of this I can take. Looters came last night and shot at\u00a0 us up at the gate. Marc had to fire at their feet before they finally left.\u201d He dropped his\u00a0 head into his hands and sank down on the couch.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>\u201cWe need to get out of here, this isn\u2019t worth it anymore. We can get a hotel and come\u00a0 back when the fire is out. They are perfectly capable of cutting the fences if things go\u00a0 south.\u201d I said comforting him.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>\u201cYeah, I tried to say something of that effect to Marc, and he told me if we leave\u00a0 don\u2019t bother coming back. We would have nowhere to go. We don\u2019t have a choice. We\u00a0 gotta stay.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>\u201cBut what about your eye, you still can barely see, did they agree to let you go to\u00a0 Urgent Care?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>\u201cThat would be a no, I got some eyedrops at the pharmacy, hopefully my vision\u00a0 comes back. We must keep going, we don\u2019t have any other options. I\u2019ll protect you no\u00a0 matter what happens, when this is all over, we\u2019ll get out.\u201d He sighed and lay back, in\u00a0 moments he was asleep, too tired to even make it to bed. Meanwhile, the wildfire raged\u00a0 around us.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>The ash fell from the sky in waves and coated everything it touched. It came through\u00a0 the window cracks and under doors settling in little grey snow drifts around the house.\u00a0 Airplanes and helicopters passed overhead in a nonstop stream to drop water buckets and\u00a0 fire-retardant chemicals in giant strips along the burning mountainside. Certain trees\u00a0 explode when they catch fire, a disturbing fact I didn\u2019t know of until I lived it. Something\u00a0 about the sap combined with extreme heat, makes them explode, thundering through the\u00a0 day and night.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>It didn\u2019t feel like I was on a farm anymore, it felt like I was at war, leaving me\u00a0 scarred mentally and physically. The only redeeming feature was that I had my husband\u00a0 with me. Even though it felt like we were in constant combat, I felt safe with him. I knew\u00a0 if nothing else, if we lost our home tomorrow, we would have each other, which was the\u00a0 only comfort I clung to with everything I had.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>After the fire subsided and the sun came back it was time to rebuild. The chaos of\u00a0 the past few weeks caused by a simple spark from an electric fence. One thing that could\u00a0 not be mended was the way both Robin and I looked at the property. It was no longer the\u00a0 farm we loved; it was the battle we survived.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>It wasn\u2019t too long after that we decided to pick up and move east, where wildfires\u00a0 weren\u2019t common. After going through all that trauma, it just did not seem like a good\u00a0 environment to build a life for ourselves. And while ranching is not as common in New\u00a0 England as it was in California, we have found a wonderful niche where we can build a\u00a0 homestead and not have the worry that it will be swallowed by a wildfire.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u00a0Farming can make or break you as a person. It carves strength into your bones, teaching you the value of grit with every early morning and late-night chore. Each day demands your attention, whether you’re battling the elements, racing after escaping animals, or toiling in the unforgiving sun. You learn to push through exhaustion, face … Continue reading The Last Harvest Personal Narrative<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4227,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":"","_links_to":"","_links_to_target":""},"categories":[6855],"tags":[],"issue":[6885],"class_list":["post-2666","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-non-fiction","issue-6885"],"publishpress_future_action":{"enabled":false,"date":"2026-08-22 13:23:15","action":"change-status","newStatus":"draft","terms":[],"taxonomy":"category","extraData":[]},"publishpress_future_workflow_manual_trigger":{"enabledWorkflows":[]},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.gcc.mass.edu\/plum\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2666","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.gcc.mass.edu\/plum\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.gcc.mass.edu\/plum\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.gcc.mass.edu\/plum\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4227"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.gcc.mass.edu\/plum\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2666"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/www.gcc.mass.edu\/plum\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2666\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2671,"href":"https:\/\/www.gcc.mass.edu\/plum\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2666\/revisions\/2671"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.gcc.mass.edu\/plum\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2666"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.gcc.mass.edu\/plum\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2666"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.gcc.mass.edu\/plum\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2666"},{"taxonomy":"issue","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.gcc.mass.edu\/plum\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/issue?post=2666"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}