When I am looking out the window in early January, and the snowplow has just gone by creating a white wall at the end of our driveway making it impassible without a snowblower and some shoveling, and the only way to get water to livestock is in metal buckets filled in our bathtub, winter wins the blue ribbon for the most challenging season.
Today the mercury pushes well above 80F coupled with a soul crushing, frizz-inducing humidity. The sheep finished their paddock a day early so Paul and I are setting a new one. I tug on the one hundred foot hose and slowly inch my way backward across the field to the new water tub. We pull the previous fence up stake by stake, kneel on the still soggy ground, wrap a black rope-tie around rolled fencing and toss it onto the ATV.
As I pass the garden I notice the pumpkin and squash leaves sagging even after the record breaking amounts of rain in the past weeks. I turn on the sprinkler, gamble on what position it is in when last shut off, lose the bet and water explodes in my face. It actually feels pretty good. The cicadas have begun buzzing letting us know we are at the peak of the summer.
New raspberries peek between their leaves, fat with tiny red, round seeds, here today, gone tomorrow. Sam meanders into the garden to pull a few off, chewing them deliberately while gazing at the grazing sheep. We pick everyday, leaving pink stained berry cartons in convenient locations so as to grab them between students and customers. In the basement, our freezer begins to fill with folded bags of berries for twelve months of eating.
In our mobile garden, basil basks in the afternoon sun. It seems we finish making batches of pesto and it is time to make more. We are always racing the plants going to seed. If we don’t keep picking, they will take an early reprieve and stop producing. Each trip to the grocery store I’m tossing pine nuts into my bag. Tomatoes are still small, green golf balls, we take a breath.
Kale needs to be picked for steaming, sauteing or freezing. Broccoli has been tossed into stir fries and I can see through pea pods, watching them getting fatter daily. There are two cucumbers under wide leaves keeping cool in the shade. Before becoming too prolific and big, I will tug them off the vine, cut them into chips, sprinkle with a bit of sea salt and serve with dinner. Later they will become pickles that we’ll pull out at Thanksgiving and taste summer all over again.
Each day is full like my pea pods. In the summer months I lighten my teaching load: I wasn’t scheduled for last Tuesday so Paul and I decided to head out on an adventure. After the week of the flood and being stranded for six days, we both were feeling like we needed to unplug and get out of town.
We took off in the morning and quickly found enjoyment in the confines of the car. We ran ideas past each other, pointing out the window at lush summer greens, enjoying the quiet of being together. We left without eating breakfast so our first stop was the Windsor Diner. We ducked under the low door that opens into the diner car (ca 1952) and found a booth in the back to slide into. The waitress, wiping down the counter in front of the glass pie case, managed to converse with each table from that vantage point. We ordered sandwiches on homemade bread and asked for a loaf to take home for Sunday french toast. Our sandwiches arrived on a thick white diner plate with a handful of ridged potato chips. No phones, no watches, no limits- our definition of good adventuring. I sat back in the red plastic booth, took a breath and a bite out of my egg salad sandwich at the same time.
Although too full for pie, we enjoyed reading the scribbled pie sign. Pie is signature diner food, nothing says a meal on wheels better than chocolate cream pie.
When we crossed the road back to our truck after eating we both found that our pace was slower and it wasn’t just because our bellies were full.
The bell on the door of the Claremont Dry Goods Shop jingled as the owner welcomed us in her articulated Italian accent. She and her husband own the shop and a local farm where many of the herbs, etc. are grown. For a second we simply stood, inhaling.
Our idea today was to get fresh ingredients for evening tea but we never leave without a generous portion of good peppercorns. I grabbed two Fennel sausages, made in Vermont, as gifts and tucked a hard triangle of important parmesan cheese into my basket. We chatted with the owner about leek salts and marinated goat cheese balls.
I am acutely aware of the passage of time and I’m not really sure why. The summer here is short, mid-August brings cool mornings and evenings and we often build a small fire in our wood stove to stave off the chill on either end of the day. I do not want to miss these dog days; the long, hot days that seem to pleasantly drag leaving plenty of time for both a swim and an evening baseball game.
I want to wring the humidity out of each day, taking simple adventures that end with ice cream.
We want to believe there is always another summer, always more time to visit that museum or hike Mount Mansfield or have iced tea with a friend. I know that there isn’t always more and I want to use time up and drain my glass.
I hear Paul dragging our Chiminea out of the garage. We’ve invited neighbors who, like us, were stranded during the flood and who showed us immeasurable small, and not so small, kindnesses. We’ll light our Tikki torches, put out bowls of popcorn then just sit near the fire chatting as the light fades, doing our best to capture fire flies and time.