Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Ears in the eye

And now, the day has gone to the gods already.  I meant to type dogs, but you'll soon know why even that best laid plan failed terribly.

Today my kids are in Salem and my hunny is at work and I worked in the garden all morning, ran some fairly boring chores and did not pass the liqueur store on the way home, but rather drove in to the parking lot and purchase enough gin and tonic to last me another year (hint: small bottle).  And here I am with kitchens to clean and a list of things to do before I take off tomorrow to pick them up but I can't remember what's on that list anymore, nor where I exactly put it down. And this leads me to blog as if it's the dead of winter and I actually have something to say. 

Summer is not a time of profound internal discoveries.  It is not a time for discussing the meaning of life.  Summer is a time of being the meaning of life.  Of being a child of the sun.  Being a mother in the lake on her floaty.  Being a sister, daughter, niece and cousin of summer salads and freckles.  Summer IS the meaning of life.  And in the eyes of such whirlwinds we do not question.  We arise, we don our swim suites, we milk our cows and we are what all of this was leading to.  The fruit of labors.  The harvest.  The reapings of the sowings.

I go out to my garden around 4:30 every evening and I ask myself, "What are we having for dinner today?"  I peek under the leaves and find out.  Squash.  Something I've never been able to grow before, giving me the (now obviously erroneous) idea that I had a black thumb.  Turns out, it was probably just terminally clayish soil.  We've got zucchini and patty pans coming out of our ears.  I am now practicing summer squash birth control, least they organize, unionize and over throw us.  

Dinner? Sauted squash and broccoli and snow peas (still!), carrots, beets.  Some onions and garlic too.  On a bed of rice or rice noodles or my own lettuce.  Lunch today was my own cheese and carrots.

We gardeners compare notes and thereby put ourselves at ease.  The tomatoes aren't setting, it's unanimous.  Gardeners agree that the bushes are loud mouths, all bluster and bombast, while the fruits are few and small.  My corn stands alone, huge and making ears already.  A gardener asked me, "WHAT ARE YOU PUTTING ON YOUR CORN!  WOW!"  Nothing but shit people, cow shit.

And my summer continues, an eye of pure existence in the existential storm of my mind.

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