Sunday Of The Harvest Moon Autumn

: You, you in the front row, showing your face. You're the type we need!

: You, you in the back, keeping watch for attack. You're the back bone of this whole little community we've got going on here.

: You, you at the side. Dinna be shy, dinna hide. You're the muscle, the grind, you're at the heart of this enterprise.

: You

: You

: You

: You - there! - you with the cheery face. Cracking your smile and singing all the while. You keep our labours light with your jokes.

: You, with the wild hair and a cap like old Mr McKeever's, you're the one we turn to for advice.

: You, Steadfast.

: You, Knowhow.

: You, Brother.

: You, Sister.

: You, Cousin.

: You, Friend

: Let me hear you say 'you': YOU

: Let me hear you say 'you': YOU

: Let me hear you say 'you': YOU

: Let me hear you say 'you': YOU

: Let me hear you say 'us,: US

: ... Thank you for HARVEST

(Music takes us to a barn dance)

She: My husband is wont to borrow a barrow or an axe or a sharpening stone only for it to lie, unused, by the kitchen door until the very day it's due to be returned. Then, and only then, when he knows time is running short, does he get up off his backside and use the blasted thing. Harvest's not like that. Harvest is the drum beat to our year.

Have you ever seen a sundial? A metal plate for telling the time, with numbers from 1-12 marking out the hours and a wee sticky-up thing casting a shadow onto whichever o'clock it is? well, that sticky-up thing is called a G-nomon

: a Nomon

: a G-nomon

: No, 'mon: a Nomon

: Nomon

: That's the ticket!

: ...Right, and this Harvest time is our... 'nomon'... It's the point in our year by which we keep account of the twelve months.
My husband can't leave Harvest till the last minute, it's not up to him. It's up to the whole community. But, most of all, it's up to the weather ( ). It's as natural to us as breathing and living.

He: My wife is wont to pop to market in the morning to buy just three simple things: eggs, flour and ale. Three simple things that would take you or me half an hour, at most, in going and in coming back. Yet, somehoe, she manages to meet Mrs Cook and Mary McKeever and Lindsay from the manor house - all of whom she's seen five times before this week. And they manage to talk for nigh-on two hours about the absolute minutiae of what's happened in the 12 hours since they last met yesterday afternoon. And then she comes home with eggs and flour and a pretty, new, bonnet. 'Ale? Did we need ale?' she'll say. 'Well, dearie me, I clean forgot! There was so much to catch-up on with Lindsay and Mary.'

Harvest is not like that. Harvest is like Christmas morning. Not a second is wasted on the usual routine.

We're up at our business as quick as the birds start tweeting, and we don't let-up, not one inch, till the crops are gathererd. They're our life. They're our food till the next Harevst. Oh, sure, there's cabbages in the Winter and Salads in the Spring. But we only have porridge and sausage and pickles because we prepare them special to last the whole year round! And we only have bread...

She: Bread!...

He: Bread to eat at every meal because of Harvest.

She: Bread! Come, John, the Lammas bread is ready. Let's give thanks!

(They sing and dance)