A Warm summer rain taps gently on the roof of the open back porch overlooking the back acres of our farm. It is early morning, a sacred time of day. A recent dry spell has left the grasses dressed in variegated shades of brown-yellow-green, and the rain is appreciated. From the porch, one can see the bluebird house where Mama and Papa Bluebird recently welcomed a set of twins to the world. When I peeked into the nest, and saw them, their scrawny naked necks were so vulnerable it made my heart ache. A flurry of activity ensues as the parents labor to feed their young. The bird chorus is in full concert. Someone gave the Robin a solo, his throaty trill is leaping with joy up and down the scale. A grade school memory emerges from a day when Sister Zoe coaxed Mark Mogenson, a tall, redheaded, shy boy to sing a verse. We had all been singing, in our varying childlike semi dulcet tones when she hushed us. “Mark, you have a LOVELY voice. Please repeat that verse for us.” Like today’s Robin, I watched as Mark transformed in that moment. He puffed up his chest, cheeks as plump and rosy as a cherub, and sang for us. Despite children’s well-earned reputation for cruelty to each other, not one snicker passed between us all, not even from Tommy Trevor, the resident freckle-faced scourge of the nuns who taught us. For a brief minute, we were all rapt, caught up in a veil of sweet kindness. Sister Zoe had that kind of magic where a person uses their power for true goodness. I learned through a class web site a few years back, Mark had passed away at a young age. If he were sitting here today, marveling at the Robin song with me, I wonder, if I asked him, if he would have remembered that day. I hope he took it with him on his short journey through this life, and I hope it was a good memory for him. With all of the abject sorrow being inflicted on our tortured world at this very moment, the only solace I know of lies in Nature and her beloved animal creatures. It is only in these moments, when I gratefully breathe in the perfume unique to a summer morning rain, that my overworked brain calms, and fragments of gentler times emerge, and I remember that sometimes, the best we can do is to be more generous with simple and small kindnesses. And, to be worthy of receiving them from the Sister Zoe’s of this world.
Category: Summer
The More Things Change, The More They Stay the Same
“Ma, I’m BORED!” How many times did I say that as a kid? Haunting my mother like a vulture, around the kitchen table on a muggy summer morning, while she sipped coffee from a green Fire King mug, penciling on her crossword, trying to find some peace. Without looking up, she’d say “I’ll give you something to do…” And I’d disappear out the door, bing, bing, bing, like Ricochet Rabbit, past the dog, dozing in the shade, past the back yard, through the tall grass, under the barbed wire fence and down the cow path before you could say “Lickety split!” (Do not ask me where that came from just now, the voices that speak to me from those days in ancient history must be heeded.) I most surely wound up catching minnows in the cool waters of the creek to put in Tupperware containers on the back step (Mom wouldn’t let us bring them in the house) And, sadly, it took me a couple of times to realize they couldn’t live in a bowl, simply for my entertainment. They were to be enjoyed alive and well, flashing, silver in the creek, darting back and forth, as minnows and children are meant to do.
Remember when the late spring/early days of summer, so anticipated, finally arrived? Freedom, sunshine, deep greens everywhere! Bird song in the morning, and crickets heard through the screens at nightfall as you lay awake in bed, thrashing at the sheets and the injustice of a too-early bedtime. Asking for one more drink of water, crying out “I can’t sleep!”in the hopes an adult would take mercy on you and set you free from the stifling bedroom in which you were trapped. Only to hear “Don’t make me come up the stairs!” Ah, those were the days. When the adults were downstairs, in charge, and you were not, but you could fall asleep knowing there were sentinels between you and the creatures of the night.
Fast forward almost 50 years. (How did THAT happen?) It’s a lazy Sunday, the day is full of possibilities, and I have all the freedom that being an adult on a beautiful late Spring day entails. I am in charge of myself, and the day stretches ahead. I’ve done the cup of coffee on the deck, observed a Flicker sitting in the grass, his bright eye turned up to the sky. I marveled at my knockout roses with their pink and red petals glistening with morning dew. I watched neon-yellow goldfinches perched on slender tall grasses, swinging back and forth with the breeze. I served the horse and donkey their morning grain, kissed their velvet noses, and inhaled the barn perfume, blend of hay, manure and leather. There are still hours of this beautiful day left to enjoy. And yet…
“Ma, I’m bored.”
“I can give you something to do…perhaps wash the dishes? Throw in a load of laundry? The bird cage is looking pretty grim…”
Just like old times, only I am the boss of me and the conversation is all in my head. If you will excuse me, the fields, woods and streams are calling my name!
Reluctant Harvest
Under the threat of a hard frost, Farmer Jonny and I spent the last of today’s daylight after our day jobs bringing in what remained of our harvest. All of the remaining peppers – green, red and hots… jalapeño, habanero, cayenne, green and red bell. Thirty butternut squashes, my rosemary and some lavender. Several cantaloupes. They are oh so sweet this year! The old ears of corn we have left on the stalk to the coyotes… yes, coyotes love old, gone-by corn! Every year we learn something new from Mother Earth. She is a firm teacher, sometimes hard, but, eventually, forgiving.
It was a difficult work week for both of us, and I wasn’t feeling much like gardening in the waning pale sunlight, with a fall wind that smelled like the breath of winter buffeting our summer-spoiled bodies. In fact, I felt petulant as a child being ordered to do a chore by a strict parent. Only I was the parent. As the memes say, adulting is hard. But, as my beloved farmer and I trundled the squashes in a giant basket between us, up the hill and onto the back porch, the wind became exhilarating, the last of the workday’s ills fell away, and our true selves, partners, gardeners, lovers of this little slice of heaven on earth emerged, and together, we beat the killing frost before it could lay its skeleton hand on the fruits of our labor.
Fallen Apples
Trees sigh and shed tears of yellow leaves onto the breeze.
Sad, for the passing of summer.
The leaves having soaked the lemony summer sunshine up
Into their veins, yet in vain
For the sun is not eternal, and none of us are immune from dying.
Except, perhaps, the thousands year old boulder excavated a hundred years ago, where I sit, holding an apple up to my nose, eyes closed. (You can’t really smell an apple unless your eyes are closed) Cinnamon, clove, citrus and the earthy scent of raw honey.
Red jewels with shiny skins the apples lie in the golden and green grass like treasures. Prepared for sweetness, I bite the smooth hard skin and it bursts beneath my teeth with a snap and a flood of tartness breaks the spell the scents have put me under.
Autumn has crept up as usual, to spring in front of us and wave her red-gold-orange-flag to dazzle by day and enchant by night with a crisp diamond studded sky, as if winter is not far behind.
I can’t stop the seasons.
But I can still take the broken apple to the barn and share it with my friends, the horse, and the donkey, and we can still bathe in the warm honey sunshine.
See the dust rise up from the hay bales and dance in that last fools gold light of summer.
Life at Low Tide
Ah, the multifaceted, unique ocean. She defies all expectations as surely as she exists. At 6am, July 21st, 2019 in Tiverton, Rhode Island, the beach is as barren of human life as a shipwreck. The dew points are in the 70% range, meaning, the air is like a sweaty tee-shirt cast off by a roadside flag man at the end of an August workday. Yet the ocean breeze carries the salty breath of the advancing tide to blow valiantly on one’s perspiring face, bringing temporary relief. The water itself rushes in vain to encircle humidity swelled ankles, and as it recedes, it tickles the toes with a promise to be right back and try again to provide respite. Alas, the ocean is as warm as bathwater. But if her temperature does not refresh the body, the playful antics, and displays she puts on possess the power to sooth the human soul. A rock in the sand makes a perfect seat for the brave soul who awoke so early to attend the show. Behind the single rock bench, an imposing, black-walled cliff momentarily shades the seething July sun. The slightly cooler air beneath the cliff smells of decayed seaweed and salt. Along the greenish horizon, a single fishing boat putts along, noisily trawling the shifting waters. The fickle acoustics of the water amplifies the annoying hum of the motor. The ocean competes and triumphs. Her deep green waters roll and pitch, hurling themselves into a fit of waves that crash with a familiar drawling roar against shiny black rocks. Droplets of surf leap above the rocks, and a cascade of diamonds shower down, glinting in the sunlight like so many cast away jewels. They disintegrate into creamy white sea foam. The lone audience member dips her feet into the water and a sea foam frosting glazes her painted toenails.
Where is everybody? The beach is so empty, one can imagine they are the sole survivor of some catastrophic event. If you overlook the obvious inconveniences and sorrows and loneliness such an event would incur, one could imagine a life of days floating on a tranquility that comes from within. A cleanness of mind derived from the absence of other human voices. Voices that all too often criss-cross over one another in conflict, hatred, and fear. The show is over. The lone survivor grabs her sandals and walks onward to the north end of the beach. The tide has delivered a bounty of ocean detritus. Piles of minuscule pink and orange shells glisten in the sun. There is less rock and more sand on this end of the beach. Barefoot walking is pleasant. Heels strike hard, damp sand, and the impact vibrates up through the spine and against the eardrum. The sound is hollow and scarcely perceptible. The sun cuts through the humidity and lays a its burning talons on the back of the neck. The survivor’s path swerves into the shallow water, seeking even the slightest hint of coolness to make the blazing heat more tolerable. Sweat beads form on her hairline and drip steadily down her face, her neck, into her ears. Up ahead, a set of giant rocks form a line into the water. A yellow sign stands in the sand, beckoning. Is it the end of the walk? Is it a warning? No, it states one is entering a nature preserve area. Foot traffic only. She walks on. The sand becomes powdery and deeper, dotted with single spikes of sea grass poking up here and there. There are tidal pools full of rocks, shells and seaweed. One could wade and find treasure. Maybe later. The beach comes to a point and turns a corner to the left. On the right, several sea birds lounge on a rock jetty. The ocean drowns out any sound they may make. For now, they are still life birds. They are a postcard-like backdrop to a random tuft of tall green grass.
The survivor rounds the corner to discover the ocean here turns itself into a river. A little spit of sand at that point reveals footprints, both human, and dog. But a wary glance in all directions for at least a mile reveals no hint of human life. Only hazy blue sky, sand, water, and tall grasses. A sudden movement startles; a pterodactyl with a huge wingspan rises from the far bank of the river. It is so big that it casts a momentary dark shadow over the sun. The creature lands about 30 feet further away. It is not a pterodactyl. It is a heron. The survivor has disturbed its fishing expedition. The heron shakes its jagged feathers and settles itself back to the task at hand. The sun is rising higher in the sky and sears through the torpid haze of the morning. The walk back daunts her. The survivor turns back. As she passes the footprints on the spit of sand, she wonders, where did the owners of the footprints go? The tracks seem to appear from nowhere, nothing leading up to or away from them. Did two ghosts materialize from the ether to haunt the last place they inhabited? Did she disturb them, causing them to vanish in haste back to the heavens? When one is a lone survivor on an empty beach on a hauntingly beautiful July morning, anything is possible.
The walk becomes less leisurely. Thoughts of civilization distract the survivor; a mug of coffee, a soft seat in a high-back chair, her feet up, the drone of an air conditioner. As she passes one cottage, she sees a man standing in a kitchen, coffee in hand. Their eyes meet through the picture window. She averts her eyes, not wishing to intrude, but before she does, the man gives a nod and a small smile. Relief washes over like a sparkling wave that breaks into tiny diamonds within her heart. It is simply the beach that is absent of people. One can smile to oneself and feel good about that.
The Writing Life of Kimberly Nash 