By Kevin Shea
As the juvenile leaves are cut from their parental trees, the Harvesters awaken from their slumber. They rise to prepare for the annual Harvest; a time for mothers and fathers to teach their young the ways of nature.
This special time of year – starting in early September and ending in late November – has been crucial to the survival of rural Americans, and for a long time it has been hidden from the rest of the world. For the first time, however, Eritas News has been offered a glimpse into the world of Harvesters.
Cliven Bixby, a 63-year-old farmer in the small town of Brighton, owns a 100-acre property occupied by conifers, deciduous trees, and a unique farmhouse he calls the Harvest Home. With the help of his wife Betty Lou and his three kids – Biff, Earl, and Jebediah – he can live off the land and enjoy a quintessential, red-blooded, rural American life: going to church, working on the farm, killing his gums with dip, and eventually marrying his cousin to extend the family line. But when they aren’t chugging enough beer to shock an alcoholic, or being cast in a remake of the film Deliverance, they are preparing for Harvesting season. So what is this Harvest, and why is it so important?
“It is fun. We go to the farm and pick the purtiest ducky beak we can find. Then we dig ‘im out of the yummy dirt and daddy cut his throat—”
“Ahem!”
The loud grunt of his father forces Earl Bixby, the youngest of all the brothers (22 years of age), to reconsider his phrasing.
“Umm, I mean that daddy harvests the ducky so we can eat him.”
I was able to witness this miracle in action on Cliven Bixby’s tour of his harvest home. The peeling red paint immediately attracts one’s attention when approaching the the dilapidated farm house. Empty beer cans litter the bumpy path from the main home to the unusual farm. The contents of a once comfortable couch is spewed along the side of the deteriorating building. More signs of decay are not only visible on this property, but pungent as well. The stench of manure is overwhelming, despite there being no farm animals.
We found Betty Lou inside the Harvest House with her son Jebediah Bixby. Each held a large plastic bag filled with Bud Light.
“We save our best beer for the harvest,” Cliven informed.
Both Betty Lou and Jebediah dumped generous amounts of alcohol along the rows of hooves, antlers, wings, and beaks.
“We keep these here body parts well fed until they start squirmin’. Then we scoop ‘em up, and uh, harvest ‘em.” A salacious grin crept upon his face.
“You wanna stay for dinner, boy?”
The sharp ringing of a banjo crept into the back of my mind. I thanked them for their time and hurried out of the door. From inside the house I heard the squealing of a pig. I remembered that the Bixbys owned no pigs, and ran for the safety of my Lexus.
Kevin Shea is an editor for The Apollos. Check out his bio here!