26 July 2017


"Beer, how are you buddy?"

It was my blueberry guy. Sitting in the shade. In an incomparably dirty plastic lawn chair. His only company a halo of black flies. I see him every summer.

"How many pounds you want?"

Told him 30 would do.

He pulled his cell phone from a pocket and asked someone on his farm to fetch 30 pounds.

"They will not be long," he told me. "We will have glass wine while we wait. Take chair."

I sat in the equally dirty chair.

Soon my patience and annual patronage was rewarded with a tall milk glass of cold blueberry wine.

"The last of last season's wine," he informed me. "Very good."

So good we had more than one glass.

We talked. Would I like to buy his farm. NDP government very good. My son shot dead. 24.

Hate and war has taken a lot of men's sons here in Dope City.

"Fucker probably deserved to die," some might say.

That was not what my farmer's eyes said.

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