The fruits of Summer

June is almost history. Fourth of July is coming up. We're moving into the essence of Summer. In addition to the forthcoming fireworks, another way to be sure of where we are in this season is to notice that, although fruit tree blossoms are long gone, tiny pears and apples are becoming noticeable. We've been getting back yard pears for years.

back yard pear tree (species to be determined)     © harrington

What's new and exciting is that this is the first year that the two apple trees, planted last Summer as a father's day present, have borne fruit. I think it's the Snow Sweet that is with offspring (OLD ENGLISH ofspring, I love it). Here's a picture of what all the excitement is about. I'm not planning on having it bronzed, as my mother did with my first pair of shoes, nor am I looking for someone named Eve. I think we'll probably split it in quarters when it grows up so that each of us can have a taste (with maybe a slice for good old mother nature), unless, of course, the doe that's moved in to the back yard gets there first.

Snow Sweet tree's first fruit ever          © harrington

Sans segue, but for the record, any relationship between yesterday's posting and today's Star Tribune story about St. Croix State Park's storm blowdowns is purely coincidental.

Nancyrose Houston writes like she spent a week at our house last month.

The Letter From Home

By Nancyrose Houston 

The dogs barked, the dogs scratched, the dogs got wet, the

dogs shook, the dogs circled, the dogs slept, the dogs ate,

the dogs barked; the rain fell down, the leaves fell down, the

eggs fell down and cracked on the floor; the dust settled,  

the wood floors were scratched, the cabinets sat without

doors, the trim without paint, the stuff piled up; I loaded the

dishwasher, I unloaded the dishwasher, I raked the leaves,

I did the laundry, I took out the garbage, I took out the

recycling, I took out the yard waste.  There was a bed, it was

soft, there was a blanket, it was warm, there were dreams,

they were good. The corn grew, the eggplant grew, the

tomatoes grew, the lettuce grew, the strawberries grew, the

blackberries grew; the tea kettle screamed, the computer

keys clicked, the radio roared, the TV spoke. “Will they ever

come home?” “Can’t I take a break?” “How do others keep

their house clean?” “Will I remember this day in fifty years?”

The sweet tea slipped down my throat, the brownies melted

in my mouth. My mother cooked, the apple tree bloomed, the

lilac bloomed, the mimosa bloomed, I bloomed. 

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