Grapes of Wrath

Migrant produce-picker hits, runs … returns (?)

My friend Scott grows Concord grapes on an arbor in his backyard. The indigo-skinned, translucent-fleshed, tart treats renowned amongst jelly-lovers ripen at the end of August.

Last summer, Scott offered his crop to his friend Jim, who was eager to try his hand at making jam. Scott had planned on picking the grapes the Friday before he left for the weekend.

Upon finding the grapes not quite ripe, Scott phoned Jim, who’d meanwhile purchased the canning supplies, to say he would gather the grapes upon his return.

On Sunday evening, as Scott pulled into his driveway, he heard a woman shouting for help. He hopped out of his car and headed toward the source of the sound.

Which turned out to be his erstwhile grape-laden garden, wherein he encountered a squat young woman, who after divesting the vines of their fruit, had been unable to climb out of the chicken-wired enclosure.

Scott hauled out a wooden milk crate, reached over the fence, and handed it to the woman. He instructed her to position the crate against the fence, hop upon the crate, and lean toward him.

Scott hoisted the woman out and set her upon the sidewalk, whereupon lay the pair of Hefty bags in which was stashed her bounty, and which she’d managed to toss over the fence.

Without a word, the woman grabbed the bags, one in each hand, and fled.

The following morning Scott found in his mailbox a note, scrawled in red pencil. It read:

Kindly get rid of the wire fence; hopefully, there’ll be a second crop in September.