Picking Pickles

Picking Pickles

A Story by Debbie Barry

A story of harvest time.


Picking Pickles


It was fall, and time to join in with harvest on the farm.  Saturday morning, we got up before sunrise.  I had some trouble waking up, because I was up past midnight, getting my homework done, so I’d have time for the harvest.

“Deb,” Mom shook my shoulder.  “Debbie!  Wake up!”

“Urgh,” I muttered.  My brain had meant to say, Okay, I’m up.

“Debbie!”  Mom shook my shoulder again.  She turned on the lamp beside my bed.

“Urmph,” came out of my mouth, while my brain meant, It’s too bright!

The ceiling light flooded the room, outshining the lamp.  I squeezed my eyes tighter, and tried to pull the blanket over my face.

“Debbie, let’s go!  We have a long day!”

“Okay,” I mumbled, opening my eyes, and rolling toward the edge of the bed.  “I’m up.”

“Hurry and get dressed,” Mom replied, walking out of the room. 

As I pulled on my clothes, I heard Mom trying to wake my sister, Penny.  It sounded like her brain wasn’t playing well with her mouth, either, from the groans and moans that came through the wall.

I pulled on a faded, red tee-shirt, and my most-faded jeans.  One foot at a time, I pulled on my socks, and stuck my feet in dark blue, canvas tennis shoes.  I laced the shoes, and tied the strings with double knots.  Then I pulled a faded, green sweatshirt over my head.  The front had once shown my favorite picture of Yoda, but many trips through the washer and drier had flakes away bits of the Jedi Master.  I sighed, looking at the picture upside down.

“It’s still my favorite,” I thought.

Breakfast was hurried, with bowls of Frosted Flakes and milk, and large glasses of orange juice.  As soon as we had gulped down the food, rinsed the bows, spoons, and glasses, and piled them in the dish drainer, we all trooped out to the big, blue station wagon in the driveway.  Penny and I jumped into the back seat.

Bang, bang!

The two doors slammed shut, almost in unison.

“I don’t see why we have to be there so early,” Mom commented, as she and Daddy climbed into the front.  Their doors closed much more gently.

“Sam said it’s a big crop,” Daddy said, turning the key in the ignition, “and there’s supposed to be a killing frost tonight.”  Daddy spoke carefully, as he usually did when talking to adults.

“Well, fine,” Mom said, lighting a cigarette.  “I hope Edna plans to feed everyone.”

“She always does,” Daddy sighed.

The drive to Uncle Sam and Aunt Edna’s house took about 15 minutes, which was long enough for Penny to get bored, and punch me in the arm. Hard.

“Hey!” I exclaimed, shoving her back to her side of the long, blue, vinyl, bench seat.

“Mom!” Penny wailed, making the word into two syllables.  “Debbie shoved me!”

“She hit me first!” I blurted, before Mom could respond.

“Debbie, don’t push your sister,” Mom said, without looking back.

I glared daggers at Penny.  She smirked triumphantly at me. 

A few minutes later, Daddy turned onto the dirt road that ran between Uncle Sam’s farmhouse and the rest of his farm.  The road was well maintained, so we only rattled and bounced a little of the fresh, white gravel surface.

As soon as we pulled into the parking area in front of the large, white, clapboard farm house, Penny’s door burst open, and she skipped nimbly away from the car, slamming the door as she did so.


“Don’t slam the doors,” Mom said, already sounding tired, as she crushed out her cigarette in the car ashtray.  She opened her door, and got out.

“Right,” I muttered, but I closed the door gently when I got out.

Snick, clunk.

“Good mornin’!” Uncle Sam came out onto the wide front porch to welcome us.  He and Daddy looked like the brothers they were, both dressed in dark blue, plaid, flannel shirts, open at the collar, a bit of white undershirt showing, and a pair of worn, but still patchless, denim bib overalls.  There both wore well-worn, tan, leather work boots, with their pant-legs tucked smoothly down inside.  They even wore almost-matching, wide-brimmed, high-crowned, braided straw hats.  It looked like neither man was too fastidious about wearing the hats, though, as both round, open, friendly faces were sun-burned.

“Hello, Sam,” Mom said, quietly.

“Hi, Sarah,” he replied, his jovial, Santa Claus smile still firmly in place.  “Edna’s in th’ kitchen.”

Mom offered a small smile, and then went in to see Aunt Edna.  Mom didn’t like having to help with the harvest, but Uncle Sam was Daddy’s brother, and families helped each other.

“Mornin’, Sam!” Daddy said, warmly, and the two large men exchanged a great bear hug.

“Hiya, girls!” Uncle Sam said, opening his arms wide.

“Hi, Uncle Sam!” I replied, enthusiastically, running to hug him.

“Hi,” Penny said, less happily, but she walked over and gave him a small hug.

“Kids’ll be down in a minute,” Uncle Sam told Daddy, holding the screen door open, and motioning us all inside,

Inside, the living room was already toasty warm.  The crackling fire in the wood stove was welcome, after the chilly nip in the pre-dawn air.  In the living room, the comfortable scent of burning wood blended with the faint pine scent that wafted off the golden, pine paneling, with the heat in the room.  A large Siamese cat lay curled in a deceptively sweet and peaceful ball on the yellow floral cushion of the large, wooden rocking chair, in front of the fire.  I steered clear of her, and knelt to pet her trio of now-adult, black kittens.  Mio was pretty, but she had clawed my face badly the previous Christmas, in that same rocking chair, for no apparent reason, when she’d awakened from a long nap on my lap.  Imo, Omi, and Emo were much sweeter, friendlier cats than their mother.  They purred when I stroked their thick, glossy, black fur, and offered their ears and chins for scratching.


I turned at the sound, and found my cousin, Mandy, standing a couple of feet away from me.  I gave Emo one last chin scritch, and then stood.

“Hi,” I replied.

We stared at each other for about ten seconds, and then collapsed into a mutual hug, both overcome with giggles.  Mandy was about eight years old than me " old enough to be left as my babysitter when I was little " and she was my best friend, as well as my favorite cousin.

“Mom says t’ come in th’ kitchen,” Mandy said when the giggles died down.  “Breakfast’s ready.”

“Sure!” I agreed, following her across the chilly entrance hall, where the stairs split the house in half, and into the enormous kitchen.

Aunt Edna’s kitchen was an amazing blend of an old-fashioned farm kitchen, with a big, well-scrubbed, wooden table, flanked by two well-worn wooden benches, with tall, ladder-backed, wooden chairs at the ends.  Around the table end of the kitchen, a huge, wooden buffet, with a hutch full of shelves, stood at the far end of the table, and two massive, long, low dressers, with six large drawers and four small, top drawers each, stood against the long wall, under a pair of sparkling clean windows that looked out across the front porch and the dirt road to the farm’s planted fields.  The other end of the kitchen contained the newest, best appliances Sears could supply, including a double oven stove with a double range on top.

The rest of the family, except Aunt Edna, was already seated at the table.  Daddy and Uncle Sam were talking animatedly, in high good spirits, with an enormous, steaming bug of black coffee in front of them.  Penny and our other cousin, Sammy " Samuel, Jr. " both looked mutinous, and the irritated look on Mom’s face said they’d been fighting.  Sammy was between Mandy and me in age, and Penny was a few years younger than me.  We were really spaced out pretty evenly.  Mandy and I took our seats, Many pushing in between Penny and Sammy, effectively ending that fight, for now.  I sat next to Penny, beside Mom.  Daddy was across from Penny and me, as all the kids shared one bench, and the men shared the other.

“Well, g’mornin’!” Aunt Edna said, placing a platter, piled with scrambled eggs, in the middle of the table.  Already on the table were plates of crisp bacon, plump sausages, fried potatoes, and cinnamon sticky buns.  Aunt Edna took the empty chair at the end of the table.

“Hi, Aunt Edna,” I replied, smiling warmly.

Uncle Sam, as the elder of the two brothers, prayed the blessing.

“Amen,” we all chorused, as soon as he was done.  The word still hung in the air as the friendly scramble to fill plates ensued.  There was enough to feed twice as many, and Aunt Edna urged us to take third helpings of everything.

“You’re gonna work hard.  You’ll need the energy,” she urged.  We all complied, happily, except Mom, who barely cleared her first plate.

After breakfast, Mandy and I cleared the table.  Sammy and Penny were told to help, but they both disappeared into the living room.

“Just fill the sink, and let the plates soak,” Aunt Edna told us.  “It’s about light enough now.  You need to get started.

We followed her directions, leaving the plates and silverware in a sinkfull of hot, sudsy water.  As soon as we were done, everyone trooped outside.

Uncle Sam led the way to the barn, on the far side of the dirt road.  He pulled out bushel baskets, while Daddy wheeled out three low, wide wagons, with big, chunky wheels.  Aunt Edna passed out heavy, canvas gloves, and dropped a straw hat on every bare head.

“We got most o’ the field in this week,” Uncle Sam said, putting an empty basket on each wagon.  If we work fast, we’ll get ‘em in.”

That was encouraging.  We didn’t have the entire crop to deal with.

“Mandy an’ Deb’ll each take a row.  Pick everything that’s left, even if it’s small.  Leave anything that’s rotten.  Put ‘em in the baskets, an’ Sammy’ll bring empty ones when y’ need ‘em.”

He looked around, to be sure we understood.

“Sammy, use the wagons to bring in the full baskets.  “Brian an’ I’ll start getting’ ‘em in the crocks, as soon’s y’ bring ‘em in.”  He gestured to the rows and rows of mammoth, stoneware crocks, which filled the barn.  About three-quarters already had boards, weighted with bricks, over their tops, but the rest were empty.  The crocks were why the barn was filled with a thick, heavy cloud of spicy vinegar zing, which tickled the nose and throat, and made the roof of my mouth tingle.

“Penny, you’ll be with me,” Aunt Edna chimed in.  Yer still too small t’ pick pickles, but you’ll do fine pickin’ the rest o’ th’ peas, beans, squash, an’ all, in the small garden.”

Penny groaned.  I didn’t blame her; the small garden was a couple of acres, all by itself.  Still, she’d got the easy job, comparted to picking acres of big, fat, prickly pickling cucumbers.

“I suppose I’ll help Edna and Penny, and pull their wagon,” Mom said.

“Oh, thanks, Sarah!” Aunt Edna exclaimed, “Th’ baskets from th’ small garden go right up on th’ front porch, Dear.”

“Fine,” Mom agreed.

With the sun just peeping over the mountains to the east, we all trudged out to bring in the last of the harvest.

The cucumbers were easy enough to find, under the broad, green leaves, which were already yellowing from the chilly, autumn weather.  It was late to be gathering cucumbers, but the season had been long, and the early fall was unseasonably warm, until, last week, it suddenly wasn’t.  Now, everyone was scrambling to get all the food safely in.

I pulled on the canvas gloves.  They were awkward, and not too comfortable, bit I knew the prickly vines could sting and burn if they scratched my hands, and some of the cukes had spines.  Pressing my hat securely onto my head, I bent over, pushed the first dark, green leaves out of the way, picked of a cucumber in my right hand, gave my wrist a sharp twist, and separated the cuke from the vine.  I’d done this before, and knew how to pick pickles.  I laid the cucumber in the empty bushel basket, and grabbed the next one.  A sharp twist, and I laid it in the basket.  Across from me, working the next row, Mandy worked at about the same pace I did.  She’d taught me the tricks, and she’d been a faster picker, but I’d caught up to her last year, matching her row for row.  This year, we were well matched.  I heard the soft thuds of her cukes landing in her basket at the same rate mine landed in my basket.

“Mandy!  Wanna race?” I called over.  She glanced up, but her wrist didn’t miss that impost twist.  Neither did mine.

“You bet!” she agreed.

“Go!” we both shouted, gleefully.

Sammy, carrying a pair of empty baskets, groaned.  “Not again!”

Mandy and I both laughed, and kept picking cucumbers.  Before many minutes passed, Sammy had to start hauling the wagons back to the barn.  He could only take one at a time, so he brought extra baskets out, and left them between the rows.  Many and I picked our way down the first two rows of cucumbers, leaving full bushel baskets for Sammy to fetch and haul.  It seemed like no time, and we dashed to start the next two rows.

By the end of the second pair of rows, Sammy had caught up with us again. 

“Ready for round two?” I asked Mandy, as we moved to the new rows.

“Bring it on!” she replied, grinning.

Although Mandy and I had both slowed down, and were rubbing our aching backs when we stood up between clumps of cucumbers, we rounded the ends of the rows at the same time.

“Still okay?” Mandy asked me, as we both stretched our backs.

“Doin’ great!” I replied.  I took a deep breath, and bent to the next cluster of wide, green leaves.

“You two’re crazy!” Sammy announced, dropping an empty basket beside each of us.

“What’re y’ doin’?” I asked, as he grabbed the handles of both wagons, and started dragging them away.

“Takin’ ‘em to Dad,” he said, and grunted with the effort.

“They’re too heavy, Sammy,” Mandy protested, pausing her picking.

Seeing that my cousin had stopped for Sammy, not because she couldn’t keep up, I paused, too.  The race wouldn’t be fun, if I won because she was worried about her brother.

“Barn’s right there,” Sammy insisted, gesturing with his chin.  It was true; we were right by the back corner of the pickle barn.

“Okay,” Mandy said, unconvinced.

We both stood in the field, watching Sammy haul the two wagons around the corner of the barn.

“What’re you waiting for?” Mandy asked, noticing me.

“Watchin’ Sammy act like a fool.” I shrugged.

“Yeah, a real idiot,” she agreed, the admiring tone in her voice making it a compliment.

“Yeah, totally,” I agreed.

“Ready?” Mandy asked.

“Let’s go!” I replied.

We both returned to picking the cucumbers.  Grab, twist, drop in the basket.  We worked our way down the third pair of rows.  I noticed that Sammy only took one wagon at a time, after his show of strength.  We were his sister and cousin; he didn’t need to impress us.

Row by row, Mandy and I were matched.  When we got back to the back of the barn, at the end of the fourth pair of rows, we both paused.

“Halfway there,” Mandy commented.

“Yeah,” I agreed.  I’d counted the remaining rows, too.  “Eight more.”

“Let’s get it done,” Mandy said.

“Yeah,” I agreed.  “Just a sec.”  I pulled off my straw hat, then stripped off my sweaty sweatshirt.  The air was crisp, but the sun was warm, and the work made me even warmer.  I tied the arms of the shirt around my waist, with poor Yoda draped over my backside.

“Good idea,” Mandy said.  I slapped my hat back on my head, and looked across at her.  She was unbuttoning her flannel shirt.  In seconds, she pulled the shirt out of her bib overalls, and knotted the sleeves around her waist.  From what I could see around the denim bib, her t-shirt was as damp as mine.

We both grinned, and bent back to our work in the fifth pair of cucumber rows.  On a whim, I started singing.

“I been workin’ in the cuke field,

All the live-long day!”

Mandy joined in, giggling.

“I been workin’ in the cuke field,

Just to pass the time away!”

She waited for me to make up the next line, but neither of us stopped picking the cucumbers.

“Can’tch see the cukes are growing,

Got up so early in the morn,

Can’tch fill the baskets faster?

Sammy, haul ‘em home!”

The last line wasn’t a good rhyme, but I was improvising in the cucumber field, so I felt pretty good about it.  Mandy kept the song going.

“Sammy, won’tcha pull,

Sammy, won’tcha pull,

Sammy, won’tcha pull that wagon full?”

I joined in again, laughing.

“Sammy, won’tcha pull,

Sammy, won’tcha pull,

Sammy, won’tcha pull it home?”

Sammy waited, listening, as we sang.  When we finished, Mandy and I both laughed, but Sammy flushed a blotchy reed, scowled, and shouted, “Stupid girls!  I’ll show y’ pullin’!”  He stomped off, pulling a wagonload of cucumbers.

Without pausing in the picking, I said, “Think he’s really mad?”

“Nah,” Mandy said, also continuing the picking.  “Well, maybe.  But only ‘cause we’re havin’ fun, an’ he’s not.”

“Yeah,” I agreed.  “Too bad,” I added, thoughtfully.

Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding!

“Lunch bell!” Mandy exclaimed, standing up, and rubbing her back.

“Yes!” I cheered, following her example.

Together, we left our half-filled baskets, and walked out of the cucumber field.

“Where’re you goin’?” Sammy demanded, coming around the corner of the barn with an ampty basket on his wagon.

“Didn’tcha hear the bell?” Mandy demanded.

“Uh uh,” Sammy denied.

“C’mon,” Mandy told him, grabbing the wagon handle out of his hand, and dropping it to the ground.  We each grabbed one of his arms, and dragged him between us for several steps, before he stopped resisting.  By the time we reached the front porch, we were walking three abreast, with linked arms.

We kicked as much dirt off our shoes as we could, and scrubbed our soles against the coarse fiber mat by the door.  Then, Mandy opened the door, and we all went inside.

“Wash!” Aunt Edna commanded, as we trooped into the kitchen.  She pointed to the half-bath off the kitchen, behind the stairs.

“Yes’m!” we all chorused.

We walked to the wash room, and all squeezed in together.  We stuffed our grubby gloves into our pockets.  Then we washed our hands and arms, all the way to our elbows.  We passed the slippery lump of white soap back and forth, from hand to hand.  Despite the gloves, the water ran black off our skin, at first.  Mandy pulled three washcloths from a cabinet above the toilet, and we all washed the grime from our faces and necks.  We all shared a towel, leaving it crumpled and grubby on the towel bar next to the sink.

Daddy and Uncle Sam were waiting their turn to wash up.  We went directly to the table, where Penny, already scrubbed, was waiting.  As soon as we sat down, Mom and Aunt Edna started putting food on the table: a huge pot of boxed macaroni and cheese, a platter full of grilled ham and cheese sandwiches, a large bowl of steaming green beans, and a large baking dish, filled with cinnamon-baked apples, covered with golden-brown crumb topping.  Mom set four large glasses of cold, white milk on the table in front of us; Aunt Edna set two enormous mugs of steaming, black coffee on the other side of the table.

Daddy and Uncle Sam emerged from the bathroom, their jovial faces shining with fresh scrubbing.  They sat on the bench across from us.  Mom and Aunt Edna sat at the ends of the table, each bringing a tall glass of iced tea; knowing Aunt Edna, it wasn’t instant.

As soon as Uncle Sam finished the grace, we all dove into the food.  I hadn’t realized it, while I was working, but I was ravenous.  No one needed urging to take third, or even fourth helpings, except Mom, who ate just a single plate of food, as usual.

Sammy polished off the last spoonful of the apple crisp, and lunch was over.  We looked at each other, each searching for a reason not to leave the table.  Finally, Aunt Edna got up.

“Nothing’s getting’ picked, while sit staring at each other.  Back to work!”

There were no arguments.  We went back to the field.  We worked as quickly as we could, but Mandy, Sammy, and I were all dragging, by the time we reached the end of the eighth pair of long, green row.  Mandy and I helped Sammy haul the last few baskets of cucumbers up to the pickle barn.  The cucumber harvest was in.

“Well, look at you three!” Uncle Sam said, approvingly.  “Only a little past four, an’ yer done!  Go up t’ th’ house, an’ get some rest!”

“Yessir!” we all said.

“Thanks, Dad!” Mandy said, hugging her father.

Grinning, I hugged Daddy, too.  He stank of sweat and vinegar, and I smelled a combination of spices that I couldn’t quite identify.

We all trooped back up to the house.  This time, I took a moment to notice the many baskets of vegetables, arrayed on the long porch.

“We better take ‘em in,” Sammy said, “before Mom tells us to.”

We all agreed, and started dragging baskets of peas, beans, squash, corn, and late tomatoes, including a bunch of green tomatoes, and white potatoes, into the big kitchen.  The kitchen got crowded very quickly.

“Well, look at that!” Aunt Edna said, coming onto the porch, as we carried the last three baskets through the door.  “Thank you, guys!”  She sounded impressed.

“We’ll go wash up, Mom,” Mandy said, before she could tell us to go.

Aunt Edna laughed, and we went to scrub off the garden soil and sweat.  Washing up took a while, because we were more careful than we’d been before lunch.  Crammed shoulder-to-shoulder around the sink, we indulged in a little good-natured splashing, but we persisted in scrubbing, until the water running down the drain was clear.

Resting on the living room couch, with the cheerfully crackling fire warming and drying our skin, was like a luxury vacation, after a hard day of work.  Penny, similarly scrubbed, joined us.  After a while, Mandy rummaged in a large, familiar cabinet, and brought out a set of Chinese checkers.  We all sprawled on our bellies on the large, oval, braided rug, in front of the wood stove, and we started playing.  The game was intense, but friendly, with shifting alliances, and lots of laughter.  One of the three black kittens, though I wasn’t sure which, curled up on the small of my back, and purred herself to sleep.

Finally, Daddy and Uncle Sam came in from the pickle barn.  The house was filled with the rich smell of roasting chickens and sage stuffing, and there was an aroma of spiced pumpkin swirling through the air whenever the hall door opened.

“Dinner!” Mom called, opening the door.  The pumpkin smell wafted in, along with a draft of chilly air from the entry.

“’Kay, Mom!” I replied.  “Coming!”

We hurriedly put the game back in its box, and Sammy stuck it in the cabinet.  I reluctantly dislodged the sleeping cat, whose warm weight felt good on my sore back.  The four of us filed into the kitchen, and took our places, all in a row, on the bench.

Dinner was delicious!  Aunt Emma had roasted three chickens until their skin was crispy and golden brown, and the meat was well-cooked, juicy, and tender.  The bread stuffing, rich with parsley and sage, was baked in a large casserole dish, and was filled with chopped onions, celery, and apples.  There was a large pan of roasted Brussels sprouts, and a saucepan full of golden corn.  A large, blue bowl was mounded high with fluffy, white mashed potatoes.  A large, white milk pitcher held golden gravy.  We all feasted well, and there was hardly anything left when we were finished.  Harvesting vegetables worked up an appetite!

“Dessert!” Aunt Edna announced, and a pair of perfectly browned pumpkin pie appeared.  Mom brought two tubs of Cool-Whip from the refrigerator. 

“I’ll have a little pie with my whipped cream!” Uncle Sam announced, as he always did, as he buried his slice of pumpkin pie under mounds of sweet, white cream.

We all laughed, and ate our pie.

I was sore and tired, but very happy, surrounded by a family that worked and played together.  Pickle picking was over for another year.

© 2017 Debbie Barry

Mary Jo. Clare
My works are based off my real thoughts and experiences. Please allow yourself to truly experience and relate to them!
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Author's Note

Debbie Barry
Please let me know if you catch typos; it helps me. Initial reactions welcome. Constructive criticism appreciated.

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Featured Review

I can see the scene waking the kids up.
It's too early, come back in four hours.
Penny and Debbie fighting in the car.
In the fields picking cucumbers, cos they were the easiest to pick. ( kids here would be citing slave labour, and phoning the Police to complain.) But there's also fun and togetherness. Plus the end product is well worth waiting for. The meal fit for a King. Though it might take a year to digest it. lol. Great poem.

Posted 11 Months Ago

1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

Debbie Barry

11 Months Ago

Thanks, Paul! It was supposed to be a story; I just corrected that. LOL

I'm really .. read more
Paul Bell

11 Months Ago

I think , Debbie. If you put your stories into chapters, you would get more reviews. Sometimes it's .. read more
Debbie Barry

11 Months Ago

Thanks, Paul. I'll keep that in mind.


I can see the scene waking the kids up.
It's too early, come back in four hours.
Penny and Debbie fighting in the car.
In the fields picking cucumbers, cos they were the easiest to pick. ( kids here would be citing slave labour, and phoning the Police to complain.) But there's also fun and togetherness. Plus the end product is well worth waiting for. The meal fit for a King. Though it might take a year to digest it. lol. Great poem.

Posted 11 Months Ago

1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

Debbie Barry

11 Months Ago

Thanks, Paul! It was supposed to be a story; I just corrected that. LOL

I'm really .. read more
Paul Bell

11 Months Ago

I think , Debbie. If you put your stories into chapters, you would get more reviews. Sometimes it's .. read more
Debbie Barry

11 Months Ago

Thanks, Paul. I'll keep that in mind.
Typo “I’ll have a little pie with my whipped cre4am!” get the 4 out of there.

Now on to all that food! It was like thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter in one day.
The story was pretty cool. I am not tired and starving thanks to you. Haha

For real though i enjoyed the story.

Posted 11 Months Ago

1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

Debbie Barry

11 Months Ago

Typo fixed! Thanks for the catch; spell-check missed it.

I'm really glad you liked t.. read more

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2 Reviews
Added on November 16, 2017
Last Updated on November 20, 2017
Tags: story, farm, harvest, fall, autumn, cucumber, pickle, family


Debbie Barry
Debbie Barry

Clarkston, MI

I live with my husband in southeastern Michigan with our two cats, Mister and Goblin. We enjoy exploring history through French and Indian War re-enactment and through medieval re-enactment in the So.. more..