We recently took a short trip. Gold-veined cornfields, wide open spaces, rugged forests of Ponderosa pines, swirling waters deep in canyons, hot sun, and crowds of people like us watching the world shape our days.
In midsummer, when most wildflowers have withered, the world is devoid of color except for the pale blue sky. Ambient colors are pale yellow, dull green, gray and taupe. Our sneaker mesh filters coarse dust that lands on the rails, through the socks and onto the feet. The heat seemed to suck the oxygen out of the air and increased the force of gravity on our limbs, making every step feel heavy.
We bring vegetables from our garden. The cantaloupe meatballs and bright green Crenshaw peaches we ate at various picnic tables were the only way to quench any thirst. The crunch of the cucumbers as we chewed them was loud in the still air and the birds were silent from the heat. Slicing thick slices of dark orange steak and red tomatoes to garnish our avocado, cheese, and onion sandwiches is like slicing steaks from grilled animal meat.
We also ate at the pub, beer garden and restaurant - on many occasions. What we love most is the friendly atmosphere with staff who recognize us as we walk in and make us feel part of a small community. Aside from amazing pastries like cinnamon rolls, sourdough bread and focaccia, the lack of flavor and abundance of vegetables made every dish ordered pale in comparison to the homemade meals we're used to preparing in the home garden.
Nostalgia for our garden.
Tyranny reigns in the garden.
Our minds wander from travels, from new experiences and visions, to the wonders of fruits and vegetables from our garden, left at home and now undergoing the slow aging process.
Green beans developed arthritis, corn became hard, eggplant withered, and cucumbers and squash went loose. We imagine fruit flies smelling ripe tomatoes and digging through melon skins in aromatic heaven. We imagine the long-awaited nectarines and peaches lying on the ground, where their entire population has fallen.
We miss them.
Our neighbors sent us pictures of their living garden, the wild and magical sanctuary they didn't lose when a family member had brain cancer. In their photos, coral zinnias are interspersed with lemon basil and dark kale, decorative lemon cucumbers hang from trellises, melon vines tread on antique rudbeckia, potatoes occupy raised boxes, 10-foot-tall sunflowers volunteer to exceeded the human population. population. the giant machine was blinded by a flash of light and the orange space exploded like a bee-drawn star.
When we got home, our garden hugged and hugged us. He danced triumphantly. Vibrant colors - yellow jelline, black-eyed Susan and sunflower, sunset hummingbird, mint, saucer-sized purple hibiscus, iron violet and giant orange and purple zinnia - all create a world that seems more really pale. that we just passed. .
Our garden does not give us rest. This requires us to get up early. He knocked on the window, inhaling the scent of heliotrope and floral tobacco, and filled the air with the enchanting song of the golden sparrow toiling over the sunflower.
The picture depicts tomatoes playing hide and seek among the leaves. He hung the peppers in front of us. He dropped tomatoes and nectarines on the floor. He sent us dazzling silhouettes of native hummingbirds and bees that made us late for appointments.
Now that I'm standing by the stove making ketchup, draining nectarines, and making winter pesto, I know that the garden is never far from our thoughts, even when we're sitting down.
