This morning I pulled a large steel bowl from under the counter and headed down to our “mobile” garden. Living in the woods means that our main vegetable garden is done with sun by mid afternoon. This works for most of our growing but not for tomatoes or basil so we repurposed one of our old wooden wagons and Paul constructed a wood grid that allows about fifteen tomato plants in pots to sit, spaced appropriately apart. On the back of the wagon sits a large rectangular growing space that we’ve filled with basil plants. Today I walk down into the pasture to the wagon and pick the bowl full of basil. This is our third pesto batch; two from basil and garlic and one garlic-scape pesto. The steel bowl is overflowing with fragrant basil but after processing with pine nuts and olive oil, like cooking spinach, we end up with only a few small jars to head to the freezer for winter eating.
July is the gathering month. Raspberries have small red starts, like a pucker for a kiss. Kale plants flap in the summer sunshine until we snip off the large, tender leaves. Some we steam for dinner adding a dot of fresh butter, ground pepper and sometimes a splash of soy sauce. The rest is folded flat, like brilliant green pillow cases, in the freezer. Our tomato plants have tiny decorative yellow flowers and several round orbs: the promise of things to come.
I close the gate after bringing sheep to a paddock, grab my small triangular hoe and spend time attacking weeds in the beds. While good for all of the garden, it seems the consistent rain storms are especially good for growing weeds. As I trudge back up the hill toward the barn hair sticks to my neck with morning humidity.
We have to have one eye on the garden and one on the fields. Heat slows the growth of grass while rain encourages it. We have to be diligent about knowing if and when to clip so as to keep pasture growing throughout the season. If we clip too tight we can injure grass roots and stop growth.
The longer hours of these early summer days tempt us to fill them with work. However, the cool of the river has its own attraction and we lean the hoes against the wall of the barn and head for a swim in the river.
Anxious dogs leap out of the car and we hook towels round our necks and begin walking. After only a few minutes I notice a small, flat stone painted with white eyes and a crooked smile, as if about to break into laughter [near the bottom of the rock face looking up at me]. I bend, flip the cool stone over in my palm and it says “Breathe.”
We continue walking and around the next corner, tucked into the base of an old oak tree sits another, larger stone. This one has eyes that are looking upward and a mouth painted in a perfect circle as if the stone is surprised by my picking it up. The message on the back of this one is “Awe.” Once again I carefully replace it where I found it and continue walking.
Now we find ourselves being interactive with our walk. We enjoy the sounds of the birds chattering from the thicket along our path. We stop for a moment and try to recognize who is talking. Wildflowers bend away from the path, their fragrance the heady perfume of mid summer. We reach our swim spot and I find myself slowing to catch sight of hidden rock messages. An old dead stump sits alongside the path to the water, the perfect spot to place towels keeping them from being stepped on by muddy dog paws. I notice a clump of three smooth, round stones set into the stump that are painted with the three ‘no evils.’ The painting is careful and precise: clearly this is someone who wants to not only leave a message for walkers, but to create.
We swim in the depths of the river then sit on the rocky beach, basking in the late day sun like contented turtles. In the field above the river a tractor paces back and forth cutting hay before the rain begins again. We smell the sweet grass cuttings. The hum of the tractor and gurgle of the waterfall spilling over rocks lulls us into silence.
As we walk back toward our car dogs race ahead of us, happy and inspired by their cold swim. I notice a small sign that I missed on the way in. The artist’s mission statement explains that the rocks are for our enjoyment, feel free to take one and be inspired. I slip the small “breathe” stone into my shorts’ pocket and enjoy the feeling of it each time I reach in.
A few weeks later our son and granddaughter, Emerson, arrive for a lengthy summer stay. The river has always been one of their favorite haunts and an idea begins to hatch.
While out running errands one week day, I stop into the Drawing Board to buy acrylic paints and a few brushes of varying sizes. I take the brown paper bag of art supplies and fold it up in a closet.
One afternoon when the sun is high and hot Emerson and I head to the river. As we walk along the path it becomes a game for her to spot painted rocks. We laugh at their funny faces and she reads me what the message is on their backs. When we get to the swimming hole- I suggest that we collect some of the rocks along the shore that have been smoothed by the river. We pile them into our backpack to bring home.
Later that week we sit at the cherry bar in our kitchen, listen to the rain pat the leaves and paint rocks. We chat contentedly about what faces work with what sayings. We set our stones on newspaper to dry.
The next time the heat beckons, we carefully place our creations back into the pack and head out onto the trail. She skips along ahead of me, remembering the perfect spot to leave a stone for someone to find. Some of the time we put them down in individual hiding places, other times we cuddle two together and laugh at how they seem to be looking at each other. We talk about how people will feel when they find them, and wonder if some will go home in somebody’s shorts pocket. Together we become part of the artist’s unique invitation to give as well as take.
Back at our car, backpack empty, we give each other a high five and head for the ice cream stand.