John Morris III, who went by his middle name “Pete” when he was a kid to distinguish himself from his father, made sure he sowed plenty of seeds this year so when it came to the harvest there was enough produce for the customers and the critters. Even so the “critters” as he calls the deer had their fill. The deer did a number on the summer squash, cucumbers and the tomatoes — especially the plum tomatoes that they chewed down to ground — at his Warwick Avenue farm. The one crop he failed to plant enough of was sunflowers. They were cleaned out by the deer that are so brazen they don’t pay attention to the wind-blown flapping aluminum pie plates John tied to stakes or the passing traffic.  Morris did a second planting of sunflowers that is now blooming and ready to pick.

Corn and tomatoes, some as big and round as softballs, brought a steady flow of customers to the stand Labor Day afternoon. It was challenging to keep up with demand as one crew worked the counter and another behind an adjoining wall pulled the leaves partially down from ears of fresh picked corn ensuring each was perfect.

Morris surveyed the buzz of commerce contentedly, pausing to wave his acknowledgement to a greeting from a URI classmate. John is a member of the Class of 1967.

It got him reflecting about his late wife, who could always be found at the farm, whether working in the fields, driving a tractor or in the ring with the horses she loved. Cindy was a member of the URI Class of 1969. They didn’t start dating until after graduating and initially she made no connection between him and the farm.

With a degree in biology from URI, Morris found a state job, but he didn’t stay. He was cut out for managing and directing and prior to returning to run the family farm held a number of jobs making, as he put it, “big money” at the time.

When their relationship became serious and Cindy learned John was a Morris from Morris Farm she was even more interested.

As he leaned on a side door to the roadside stand, John recalled how Cindy’s father would take her fishing at the mouth of Warwick Cove from a spot on Randall Avenue on Warwick Neck. On their way home, Cindy would always ask if they could drive by the farm. Her father couldn’t understand her interest in the farm, which he didn’t hold in high regard.

There was no hesitation on her part many years later when she and John were wed and he asked her how she would feel if they turned to farming. It was the late 1970s and John’s father realized he didn’t have it in him to keep running the farm. If nobody in the family wanted to step in and fill his shoes, he saw no alternative but to sell the property.

Cindy was immediately excited by the prospect, but John wanted to make sure she had no illusions as to what she would be getting into.

“I told her there was no retirement plan, no health insurance, no company car and if you got hit by a bad storm, a hurricane, you could lose everything,” he recalls.

As it turned out Cindy was as much a farmer as John. He taught her how to drive a tractor, what to plant and when and what it takes to ensure, or at least give a fighting chance, to what is planted to produce. They made a great team. She was easily spotted working the fields, her blonde hair tied back with a red bandana. Cindy died suddenly on March 26, 2015. She was 68 years old.

This year, like others, has offered its challenges for farmers. It was a wet and soggy spring that put a delay in planting. Corn was slow to grow and then it took off in the June heat wave. John said the first harvest was in time for the Fourth of July. Conditions have been good even though the recent rain/hailstorm tore the leaves off the corn grown at their field in Exeter. It made a mess, but the corn went unblemished.

John didn’t volunteer what will become of the farm when it comes time for him to retire.

He’s focused on the immediate. The mums are budding and pumpkins will fill the stand in another couple of weeks. There’s corn, tomatoes and much more. The harvest is plentiful.

Cindy would love it and that keeps John going.