Pumpkins in July
On figs, fishing, and the trouble with living two months ahead of your feet.
Hey there darling,
I went out of town for a week. An impromptu trip to Arkansas to spend some days with my little brother. Drew is two years younger than me. My earliest memory is from the day he was born, and I’ve always said I’ve been loving him as long as I can remember.
It doesn’t really matter what is happening in my life or his, put us together and we will have a good time. We will laugh, eat good food, go from talking about everything to sitting in the comfortable silence that old friends have perfected. We will catch some fish. Anyone watching us would say our mannerisms are the same. They might notice how completely at ease we are together. We don’t notice. We just are.
I drove 1600 miles in a week for that trip. It was worth it, but I came back to a garden that had revolted in my absence. Gardens in July are like clingy girlfriends. They take revenge for neglect.
Last night, I went out at dusk. The figs had begun ripening in my absence. I ate so many, you could call it gluttonous. Fifteen figs. Maybe it was twenty. Fat, soft bodies yielded to my hungry teeth without even the slightest fight. I filled my shirt with them, that makeshift basket. And even the last one I ate made me close my eyes in appreciation.
I didn’t work in the garden. I never do on my first walk through after a week’s long absence. What would she think if I disappeared for days and came back only to whip her into shape? Certainly, I do not do that. I ease in slowly, like a lover returning to bed in the wee hours. I say hello and take notes of her needs and I eat without restraint.
Today I’ll roll my sleeves up. The bindweed has encroached fiercely upon the Dahlia bed, the one where the Crème de Cassis flowers grow. The Japanese beetles have hollowed out one of my rose bushes and there are at least three lamb’s quarters growing a yard high in the cottage garden.
August 1 is usually the date by which I give way and bless the garden into her wildness. When I stop fighting and let go. I’ll shift my attention to spaces I can turn over for fall growing and let the summer growth dive like the thrilling turn of a roller coaster. I don’t steer it. I just ride. Everything has been early this year. I ate my first tomato in the first week of June! June! There is a part of me that feels tempted to accept that her wildness may have come early too.
Nonetheless, I’ll try to reclaim her from the bindweed, to clean up the splitting fruit and the browning leaves and try to eke out a little longer with her. It may be futile, I should know by the end of the week.
Yesterday, South Carolina felt like the bottom of a soup pot. Oppressive heat, that’s what I think when I break a sweat walking from my car into the store. I feel utterly oppressed by the weight of it, a heavy hand pressing me down into the scalding asphalt, the radiating burn of it reaching through the soles of my sandals and making me walk faster. Me, reaching the door of the Costco and with it, the air conditioning, like a child touching base in an uncomfortable game of tag. Olly Olly Oxen Free.
When I got inside the store yesterday, there were doormats with pumpkins on them that welcomed me in. For the bargain price of $18.98, I could buy a bit of décor that promised the hand of summer would yield soon. By the time I made it back to the produce aisle, I grabbed a bag of sweet potatoes since I never did get around to planting any this year, and couldn’t help but wistfully think of preparing some for Thanksgiving.
“What am I doing?” I thought. “Girl, you don’t want to be back in Winter, what are you thinking?” That’s the problem with me, I have always had a terrible habit of allowing my mind to live two months ahead of where my feet stand. Doesn’t matter how much I love today and long for it the rest of the year, I’ll wander ahead.
I’m working on it. I am, it turns out, more like my garden than I used to know. My mind, if not faithfully tended, gets overrun with bindweed. The beetles take over and threaten my fig supply. The tomatoes hang heavy until they split if not picked. But when I’m with my brother, pulling in the biggest bass I’ve ever caught in his favorite secret fishing spot, I am not grieving the drive home. When we stop for smoothie bowls and get caught in a mercifully cool rain that soothes the scorching asphalt, we just stand in it, laughing.
I guess the thing, after forty years of living, that I’m only really just beginning to grasp is how powerful presence is. To be I AM, no matter the heat or the discomfort or the demand of what’s around me. I’m working on it. Time to go tame the garden, or at least try.
Blessings until next time, Jess
I really love your comments. Your thoughts on this piece, what it made you feel, or even just how you’re doing. Let me know.
What a blessing to read this while also on a spontaneous road trip in the smack dab middle of garden season (what was i thinking?). Words like this remind me of why I enjoy reading. I am also reminded of why I cherish my own life, my family and my friends, and pationately pursue time in my very own gardens and orchards. Thank you! This was a sweet read.
I love it. I love it. I love it. Everything from sibling adoration and FUN (and getting away for a little while) to summertime frustration and discomfort to a very sexy line about returning home to your garden and enjoying the fruits of your labor—literally. It's yummy all the way around.