Fruit Filled

We are in the rocking horse days of summer, mid July, when growing things have taken the place of barren winter landscapes, when exuberance of shoot and stem pushes upwards.  So mow the lawn, pull weeds, trim hedges; grab a glass of cold tea, straighten the back and go at it again.  Work your bare hands into the soil, there are beneficent mycorrhizal bacterium that cause serotonin to be released in our brains,  which may be Mother Nature's manner of getting us to like gardening, because it makes us happy.  I do enjoy shoveling snow as well, but the satisfaction of a clean sidewalk doesn't compare to seeing new columns of buds atop snapdragon stems, or better, the shoulders of a growing carrot burgeoning up above the level of soil.

Rocking horse days because the day's work does end, clipping tools are wiped, maybe a light supper and then you get to sit, the kids play, and feet go up onto wicker ottomans.  Wicker, what a great summer sound.  This year has been full of rain, and besides a bounty of mosquitoes, the farmer's markets are heavy with new, tender chard; the first of the sour cherries came two weeks after the first dark sweet; lovely green beans came home with me, as well as two ears of early corn.  Brilliant yellow zucchini, green cukes; red raspberries shaped as fairy cups, each drupelet containing an antioxidant powerhouse, ten times that of a tomato; the stalls are manned by folks who were up by four to load trucks and vans with full wooden crates, stamped with family names.

The ears of corn have been shucked, releasing the banner of summer in the kitchen, the husks and silk examined by the cat.  Milky sweet rows of yellow fill these short cobs, to me a miracle of pollination.  Wind does the job for corn, not bees.  I pit two quarts of sour cherries with my ten-dollar cherry pitter for freezing, and shred a zucchini to toss in a pot with chicken backs, a tomato enters as an afterthought.  I add the packets of salt and pepper left from yesterday's take-out fish fry to the soup and let it go.

Tonight I wish to finish the dishcloth I began knitting while watching my friend, it has the pattern of a sand dollar apparent through knit and purl stitches.  Because at best, even though I wrote down which rows were finished, stitches were skipped, added, lost, returned, and fumbled, the sand dollar looks more like a Girl Scout cookie the dog stepped on, but I don't care.  It was begun with my friend, and it will remind me of sitting with her one last time.  The next pattern will look better, but not mean as much.

The day was hot, lucky duck us have the air conditioner running, and now the sun is past meridian and the edge of the earth lifts up, spins to meet the setting sun.  The new blood pressure medication is a pain in the neck, for it encourages listlessness and dumpy drawer lackadaisia.  Doctor says side effects will smooth out.  Meanwhile, I can manage to count stitches while the stars begin to be visible in the heavens, progressing through the spiral arms of our galaxy.  Find a cheek to kiss, one that was out in the sun, tousled hair that still smells of outdoors air, good for you if you can.  The rest of us have memory and dreams, wishes and plans, and it all works out in the end.  Let your self flop down, safe, loved, good job done, another day comes.  Sleep well; the clock will count the hours.