Ben Shahn:
Untitled [Washington Court House, Ohio] (July-August 1938)

"The evil done in our name serves as the greatest evil of all."

Our incumbent waddled off his golf course to fly back to his supposed home to deliver another borderline incoherent rant about something. He sounded triumphant as he spewed his usual paradoxes, pleading for a peaceful end to a violent engagement he initiated. So much for the great negotiator, now reduced to pre-emptive triumphalism.

The Muse and I had spent our day harvesting. A friend had reported that his pea crop was threatening to overwhelm him and his raspberries, too, so we took him up on his offer. Old friends were visiting, and we took them along to see his two new Appaloosa colts and to help with the harvest. It had been years since Kim had anything to do with Raspberries. Her grandmother's had been too prickly to comfortably pick. These were different. We left with four pints of berries and some fresh stories we'd shared. Something about harvesting brings out the stories from within.

While our futuristic bombers were flying around the world, we stopped for lunch at a place The Muse had been after me to visit since we returned from exile four and a third years ago. I don't get out much anymore. The place passed muster. I had a bowl of cabbage soup made with hamburger. It was delicious! The Muse ordered the last batch of deep-fried asparagus. I didn't care for the batter, which tasted bitter. Banter was the relish over the meal, with an attentive and good-hearted waitress who could recite the beer menu from memory.

We'd intended to pick cherries that afternoon, an annual ritual required to keep The Muse's breakfast larder properly stocked. The orchard owner offered a taste of a Black Pearl variety, and we were hooked. We tromped to the far reaches of the orchard only to find it pretty thoroughly picked over. We persisted, cherry-picking, if you insist, managing fine. Kim had never picked cherries, never thought they might grow on trees, but took to the exercise like a duck to water, assuming the duck would have to reach up to swim. The Muse immediately found a ladder and climbed as high as she could possibly climb, for cherry picking serves as one of The Muse's most treasured freedoms. She seems like she's flying up there, eating almost as many cherries as she's retaining. Cherry picking serves as The Muse's Fourth of July.

Fireworks were exploding for real just outside Tehran, where B-2 bombers were dropping absurdly powerful munitions as if on a mission from God. Fifty years of thoughtful diplomacy was the intended target, and by all reports, the mission was successful. The arrogance seemed more damaging than the bombs. Our good faith and credit went up in smoke without our incumbent even noticing. He was distracted celebrating his latest chaos.

We left with forty-four pounds of Black Pearls picked at their peak. Kim and I would stem and cull the take after shelling the large bag of peas we'd also picked on our outing. The satisfaction settles in as the shelling and culling continue, a cold beer slowly sipped between batches. Fingers stained with evidence of transcendence, The Muse decided we'd pit the fruit tomorrow and enjoy a light meal with our victory that night. We caught ourselves as we were moving into dessert, fresh raspberries on shortcake with freshly whipped cream, speaking of our incumbent, the worm in the cherry, the rot in the raspberries.

It's all about priorities, which ones one chooses and which ones one avoids. The insistence that any of this is necessary undermines its actual significance. It's actually all about choices and the voices we respond to. Evil even lurks within a Spring day spent on orchard ladders and bent over a pea patch. The evil done in our name serves as the greatest evil of all.

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