I think of July as the puberty of summer: the last two weeks of July and first two of August when everything is most lush.
Each morning we wake and stumble out into the kitchen, the stone floor cool on our bare feet as the dogs circle us, talking. The green stained glass square sitting up on the window sill shoots colored stripes across the floor. The height of the sun, the time of the day, perfect to create parallel beams as if in an Indian Jones movie. The living room windows fill with green of the trees directly outside. In July we live in a tree house. The the abundance of leaves darken the house but take the temperature down. Any mid-day, when driving on our dirt road home, I watch the temperature drop a minimum of ten degrees from where I started when I was in town. We use a standing fan once, maybe twice during the hottest times of summer. I prefer the quiet of the night but when the heat stays raised and even a light cotton blanket makes me feel as if I am sweaty with a temperature, we drag the fan in.
Breakfast is light; yogurt with raspberries Paul brings up in aqua-blue cartons. still warm from the garden. We eat quickly and head out to help Bronte walk sheep down to pasture in the coolest temps of the morning. Seamus, not yet ready for herding, races to the back bedrooms where he can stand, front feet up on the window sill and watch us meander down the hill. Even in the canopy of the maples, the sheep’s sides puff in and out from the warmth. We unchain the latch and swing open the clanking metal gate. Knowing the grass is greener on the other side of that gate, the ewes race in, often tilting sideways before leaping into the summer sunshine in an acrobatic arc. I always stand at the gate and watch them go, hurrying toward favored grasses.
The sprinkler swings back and forth over the length of the garden making a tell-tale swish as it hits leaves of the plants. I step through the garden gate to check on things and delight in a quick cool down as the droplets fall over me. Making a mental note about kale needing picking, I walk past rows and rows of potatoes coming up. Their leaves the deep green before they will begin to brown out, notifying us that they are ready to be dug. As I walk I swat everything; deerflies, mosquitoes, horseflies: mid summer is primo insect time. Standing near the compost pile checking on the butternut squash trail I watch two milk snakes mate on the warmth of the bedding and notice the buzz of the Cicada’s arrival, insistent like a car alarm, the sound rising in the center and trailing off, fatigued. From the depth of the woods I hear the Hermit thrush’s bell-like call. A summer symphony of sounds circling and responding to each other.
At the back of the garden Paul’s hat is bobbing with the motion of picking raspberries. We time our vacation at the lake around berries, both blue and red, arrival. The beginning is normally noted by a single berry but that is the go-flag for picking. If blueberries are left, even an afternoon, birds, chipmunks, skunks and black bears will harvest. The raspberries are inside the garden fencing making them more protected but their season comes hard and fast, if you blink, they are done. We fill quart baskets over and over, each evening marking the day’s tally on a chalkboard in the kitchen. On the weekend I stand over a black cast iron pot steaming with raspberries, lemon juice and a bit of sugar. I’ll make jam until I have enough jars for winter in the freezer of the basement. Once finished, they take their spot next to basil pesto we have tucked away. I have winter dreams of homemade pastas and soups ordained by pesto.
Onions stand at attention in our mobile garden which is stationed next to the greenhouse. Impatient, their purple tops begin to push out of the warm soil but I won’t pull them until late August or early September so I reward their patience by watering them daily.
I swing open the North door of the greenhouse and check on tomatoes, the only tenants. There are green orbs of all sizes in progress. The earthy smell is heady and, if it wasn’t for the intense humidity, I’d stay there all afternoon watching tomatoes and sheep grow. My body feels a muscle memory of making jar after jar of tomato sauce and is unsure of whether or not we are ready for that…again.
As our lunches and dinners are not yet laden with our garden goods, we buy fat tomatoes from the farmer’s market and make juicy BLTs for a cool supper. Josh brings down a paper bag of cukes and I spend Sunday morning making sweet pickles.
There is a wonderful purposefulness in creating future meals. There is magic in the stirring and steaming over the iron cauldron.
There is much to do but we make sure to find time to enjoy. We scope out the baseball schedule and spend several summer evenings at the top of the stands eating hot dogs and cheering.
When the humidity and temperature become too much we push folded towels and sunscreen into the backpack, grab sandwiches from the Co-op and head for the river, a dog’s head each hanging out. As we follow the path along the river I stop to look out over the fields of corn, the curve of the rows make the field look like it is a green wave in motion. Seamus and Bronte race ahead, knowing the ultimate destination, the canopy keeping us in the shade. Arriving at our normal spot, we duck through the Japanese knot-weed down to the stony beach.
We spend the late afternoon floating down the river, walking back up and floating again. The water gurgles around the large rocks making small rapids for us to navigate. When we first step in we are jolted by the cold around our waist. We laugh and hoot. As we sink lower we acclimate.
When we are properly cooled off we climb out, tossing sticks into the water for the dogs. We wrap ourselves in cotton towels and I think how comforting that feels. Opening the towels we sit on the beach letting the sun warm our skin.
I look up and down the river making mental photographs for another time, perhaps for winter when I am wearing wool and sitting near the wood stove. What I know is that I don’t want to ever forget this time, this place, this family. Seamus runs past shaking sand across my legs, I laugh.
This summer of loss has taught me. Taught me to stop working and pack a picnic, eat a hot dog (or two) at a baseball game and memorize Paul’s exuberant cheers for the home team. To remember Seamus as a pup, one ear tilted, one ear up, racing to the water, leaping the final foot to the tossed stick and to slow down enough to notice the way the river turns a specific shade of green as the sun begins to drop behind the mountain, like the ending of the most magnificent play.