Midsummer

And now comes that pause all gardeners know. The early crops long ago succumbed to the heat and the cukes sit pickling in jars.  We ate the last of the first planting of the sweet corn last night and the third planting of green beans is just above ground.  The tomatoes, which are wonderful this year, and the relentless zukes still bless us, but everything else waits.  Every day I thump the "not quite" watermelons, but they are holding out for August.

In the flower garden rudbeckias are wilting in the heat while crepe mytrle and zinnias seem to eat it and thrive.  I have a few blooms on an intrepid old rose by the porch and the tropicals on the porch are happy as long as I daily give them gallons of water. 

This morning on the shaded front porch there is a coolish breeze.  Hummers visit the feeder.  The flower border and trees move with finches, shy buntings, titmice and wrens.  A head-down nuthatch hangs comically from the overhang, determined, it seems to do things the hard way.  It is supposed to be in the upper nineties today and the humidity has been saturating.  Water vapor hangs in the air hiding some mountains I can usually see and muting the others.  The rooster crows down below in the barnyard, not because it is early, but just because he feels like it. Another at a neighbor's answers. Katydids clack, clack, clack.  Such a hot sound.

One of today's tasks is to wash and groom Pico, our mountain of a dog.  He will hate this and it will take two of us and we will need a third which we don't have.  Most likely  the goats have gotten out of their pen on the hillside where I am trying to get them to stay and eat brush.  They don't leave the pasture, but I really need them to eat the hill where we can't mow.  But then goats almost never do what you need them to do. Picasso, the cat, got a respiratory infection and had to be taken to the vet.  He is recovering.

The breeze on the porch has now died.  The day is bracing for the heat. I feel it.

Soon we will need to think hard about a fall garden.  I have already started some seed.  We will need to order more.  Soon the sumac will start to turn and the school busses will start to roll.  But soon is not yet.  Now is pause.  Most everything about gardening and farming is flux, so I stop and observe and enjoy these brief  static moments.

Live Deep
"Live deep instead of fast" --Henry Seidel Canby

This week with the fourth behind us, I am keenly aware that we are now deep into summer.  The days evaporate like the droplets of an afternoon shower, and I tell myself to stop and breathe, to savor, not fret.  I vow to make time to sit on the porch and read, to take walks, to stay up way too late, to sit in the sun and enjoy the sensation of being warm all the way through. I vow to eat juicy, ripe fruit and enough corn on the cob with real butter to satisfy me until next summer. I promise myself to take at least one more road trip somewhere, to stick my feet in an ice cold mountain creek and to spend at least a few evenings around a campfire with friends contemplating life and watching fireflies dance .  Summer, like each season in its turn, is a gift.  We offer God our best thanks by living each moment fully.

 

My nephew wades in to the swimming hole near our farm

Happy Fourth of July!

Must be summer...I just picked the first tomato. The four "patio" cucumbers I planted were staging a garden coup, but I showed them...

Taking full advantage of all the great, local food that abounds this time of year.  So far, besides the pickles, we have put up peaches, blueberries, blackberries, a few green beans, not to mention loading up the freezer with local beef.  But the thing that gives me the most sense of accomplishment is when I can put together a whole meal completely from our land, like the chevon pot roast with carrots, potatoes and chard which we enjoyed  earlier this week.