Summer: success or failure?

After driving past a number of local corn fields during the past few days, it looks like about 40% +/- are now at the tassel stage. Continued drought may well lessen autumn's yield. But, there's many more ruby-throated hummingbirds coming to the feeders than there were a week or two ago. Successful fledglings? Probably. Temperatures are forecast to be in the upper 80's and low 90's for the foreseeable future (ten days or so in real time). It looks as though we've arrived at the dog days of summer. May we enjoy them, savor them, and survive them with few regrets, if any at all.

field of bee balm

Photo by J. Harrington

Over the next week or two we'll see if we can successfully transplant some bee balm from a field or two where we've been given permission to collect a handful and replant them in the field behind the house. We also want to find some butterfly weed and plant it although that may have to be transformed into a spring project if we can't find any plants in the near future.

It looks to us as though the human race, and the earth that produced us, might do well to consider the perspective behind Samuel Beckett's famous quote “Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.” Earth's current state can't be considered a success, nor can the condition of much of the human race this summer. Do you suppose enough folks alive today remember that we had antecedents such as Neanderthals, that failed, they no longer exist? Do enough of our "leaders" realize that  we are not guaranteed exemption from a similar fate? Many of the  younger generations are doing their best to convince their governments that everyone's future is at  stake. Failure to act promptly and vigorously will leave way too many of us with very deep regrets. We need to do better.

The Woman Who Turned Down a Date with a Cherry Farmer

By Aimee Nezhukumatathil

           Fredonia, NY

Of course I regret it. I mean there I was under umbrellas of fruit

so red they had to be borne of Summer, and no other season. 

Flip-flops and fishhooks. Ice cubes made of lemonade and sprigs 

of mint to slip in blue glasses of tea. I was dusty, my ponytail

all askew and the tips of my fingers ran, of course, red

from the fruitwounds of cherries I plunked into my bucket

and still—he must have seen some small bit of loveliness

in walking his orchard with me. He pointed out which trees

were sweetest, which ones bore double seeds—puffing out

the flesh and oh the surprise on your tongue with two tiny stones

(a twin spit), making a small gun of your mouth. Did I mention

my favorite color is red? His jeans were worn and twisty

around the tops of his boot; his hands thick but careful, 

nimble enough to pull fruit from his trees without tearing

the thin skin; the cherry dust and fingerprints on his eyeglasses. 

I just know when he stuffed his hands in his pockets, said

Okay. Couldn't hurt to try? and shuffled back to his roadside stand

to arrange his jelly jars and stacks of buckets, I had made

a terrible mistake. I just know my summer would've been

full of pies, tartlets, turnovers—so much jubilee.  

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