Seventh Inning Stretch
Jason and Nathan hand weeding chard until a big sky
It’s 8:00p.m. and we’re stumbling out of the fields in a fit of irony singing “It’s Five O’clock Somewhere!” Or at least we were for most of the season. These days, five o’clock comes and my feet stubbornly go on strike. Sunday afternoons have become disjointed distractions of food preservation that embody that “light at the end of the tunnel” hope, but also conveniently keep us in the house and out of the fields.
The last few weeks of the luxury of two employees upon us, we steal these little subtle moments-just here and there to tidy the house, weed the landscaping, or cook a complex meal. We brand this onset of laziness “cumulative exhaustion.” Like we’re just making up for those earlier long days. It’s probably a euphemism, or perhaps a rationalization, but either way, we’ve arrived at the seventh inning stretch before we head into the closer.