When the Type A Ant Removed the Tiny Grasshopper Shaped Stick From Her Ass
Once upon a time, in a magical and beautiful land called the Pacific Northwest, there lived an albino ant who was a very skilled at putting away food.
This ant was not worried about winter, for in the wondrous world of Washington State, many things grow all year long. Fish and seafood are abundant, and there is kale as far as the eye can see.
No my friends, this ant was more concerned about zombies. Big, brain eating zombies.
And so this ant canned, dried, froze, and fermented all summer long, until she was falling down exhausted. She harassed her neighbors asking to pick their unwanted produce, she “urban harvested” the unofficial weed of Washington State (blackberries), and took her darling antling (let’s pretend that’s a thing) along with her. She once canned and canned and canned, and kept track of all her canning one year, and found she had canned about $650 worth of stuff. While working full-time.
That ant was tired!
Then the big 2014 harvest happened, and the ant found herself in a really weird predicament. The summer was very nice (second hottest on record) and her garden was exploding. The ant was harvesting produce in July and early August, that usually wasn’t ripe until September or early October. The ant was traveling, working, busy, and taking care of ant parents. After a late night of trying to do it all, the ant clutched her pearls, ripped off her apron, and in a tiny ant voice, yelled “FUCK IT”.
And the ant was free. A huge burden had been lifted from her ant shoulders.
Suddenly, without the pressure of trying to (pressure) can, ferment, and dry everything in site, the ant was enjoying her summer. She completely missed blackberry season (a cardinal sin in the ant’s view), went on a three day trip to the ocean, and basically calmed the hell down.
Feeling like a naughty ant, she began giving away the excess produce to coworkers, neighbors, people at church, and random strangers walking up her hill. The ant wouldn’t let anyone come over to her house without taking away a bag of organic tomatoes, green beans, and a small pumpkin or two. The ant was no fool though; all fruit was kept close to the ant hill because her antling would cut a bitch before he shared blueberries, strawberries, and raspberries.
An act that started out of desperation (being overwhelmed by produce), became the ant’s favorite way to connect with people. “You look sad” she’d say, “have some tomatoes”. “You’re sick and can’t work and have to take care of your child you wonderful single dad”? Please take these eggs, salsa, tomatoes, and soup”. “Hey church people, you like Jesus? Guess what? Jesus loved tomatoes. Take this whole bag, or else you love the devil”.
The ant once had a guest pastor that said something along the lines of “we don’t make an impact by what we leave behind, but by what we give away”.
The ant looked around at the nearly empty shelves and freezer, then at the happy neighbors, family, and new friends, and she knew it was true.