When we moved to Payson seven years ago it was with romantic dreams of farm life fueled, to be sure, by cartoons and movies that glamorize the earthy hominess of country living.  We dreamed about all the possibilities that five acres could bring us.  “We can have a family business and grow corn and tomatoes and plant fruit trees,” my husband whispered romantically into my ear.  Chills ran down my spine as I sidled closer to him. “Tell me more,” I would say with a wicked grin.
For years we had been collecting pictures of our dream house, our dream land and dream lifestyle.  We searched the whole state of Utah looking for property and ‘that lovin’ feeling’. Though there are many beautiful spots around the state that could have worked nothing felt right. Then came that glorious day in June when we saw our property on West Mountain and we knew that this was the right place. We got right to work and within 18 months we had cleared two acres and were ready for that family business.
We decided to sell raspberries. In our minds we could see perfect rows of weed-less lush berry plants much like the beautiful vineyards of California, with our children happily picking the sweet tender little fruits, speaking kindly and respectfully to each other.  And, within 18 more months we were ready to plow it all under and move into a track home.  Gone were the visions of a happy productive family working side by side in our dream world. Instead, we were cantankerous ornery saps trying to figure things out as we went along.  We were so caught up in our visions of grandeur that we forgot to think about or make provisions for weed control, insect control and many other aspects of farm life that those movies don’t get into.
Each year as we approach the end of the growing season, we pray day and night for a hard frost to finish off the berries and give us peace. And when that first snow comes you’d think we had just witnessed the heart thumping miracle pass from John Beck to Johnny Harlin standing in Utah’s end zone.  We put away our equipment, scrub off the raspberry stained porch, kick our feet up and settle in for a well deserved holiday break.  There’s no talk of next year.  We all hope there is no next year.
And then Spring comes.  With it comes the miracle of green life.  By March we’ve mowed down the canes and little green shoots are springing forth out of the sixty plus raised beds.  Miraculously, without any help from us, the tiny little plants push up through the earth and break open the soil as they clear the path to their future and ours.  My heart swells with emotion and I secretly swipe away a rogue tear.  Our children are dazzled by the plants and can hardly believe that by August, picking time, the canes will be taller than they are.  They reminisce about how good the berries taste and how the whole patch smells of raspberry and how much money they will make completely forgetting how they will hate it by the end of October.  They are kind.  They are respectful.  My husband grabs my hand and we take a romantic stroll through the rows as we make our plans for another exciting raspberry season.