Cucumbers

As I type these words, I’m nose-to-nose with a blank wall, suffering (hear me wail?) from a serious case of writer’s block.  Yes, I had a good idea when I sat down to blog.  Yes, it had merit, and might even resonate with someone out there.  But no, NO, the words refused to come. I couldn’t seem to squeeze them out proving, once again, you can’t get blood (stories) out of a turnip (writer with block).

However, to prove I’m not one to quit when licked, I’ll talk about something else. Not turnips, though.

How about……cucumbers?

They grow around here. In fact, we live about 20 minutes from a large cucumber station. I’m not sure what actually happens in that gigantic building, or rather series of buildings, but the place looks vacant most of the year UNTIL, during cucumber harvest, it jumps to life. Lights!  Action!  I've been told its a way station rather than a factory.  Still, I'm not sure what all that entails.

Evidently there are two varieties of cukes farmed in our area.  One is harvested mechanically, the other manually.  This explains the long row of mobile homes housing migrant workers not far from the facility.  They sit empty for most months, except for harvest season when vigorous, dark-skinned, muscular-looking young men and their young families move in.

Tonight I drove by the facility and noticed quite a few huge truck trailers mounded high with millions upon millions of fat green cuke fingers.  (Larry, are you in there somewhere? Bob wants to know.) Evidently they’re waiting to be hauled somewhere, and presumably will end up being brined in a vinegar mixture either whole, speared, sliced, or chopped into relish.

And that’s all I have to say about cucumbers.