It’s summertime!!!

According to the meteorologists, today is the first day of summer. According to me, it’s a beautiful late spring, early summer day. I’m toying with the idea that June may be my second favorite month, after October. Here’s what was in our final community supported agriculture [CSA] Spring Greens share that we picked up this morning.

• RHUBARB
• GREEN GARLIC
• RADISHES
• GREEN INCISED LETTUCE
• ASPARAGUS
• GREEN BUTTER LETTUCE, and
• BABY KALE

what June days are for

Photo by J. Harrington

On the way to the barn, to pick up this week’s share,  we saw several deer and small flocks of wild turkeys. I’m not sure why the hens aren’t incubating eggs, unless they’re not yet bred. Then, when we were almost home, we saw a medium size snapping turtle walking down the middle of the road. I stopped and encouraged the critter off the road and into the grassy shoulder, limiting the likelihood of seeing a squashed turtle the next time we drove that way.

It looks like the Better Half is fixing some kind of desert using the rhubarb and I think she said something about antipasto for dinner tonight. I may yet learn to like eating my veggies instead of just meat and ‘taters.

Speaking of greens, I don’t think I’ve ever seen grass, or fields of rye, as bountiful as roadsides and farm fields are this year. Last winter we were in a deficit of snow (precipitation). This spring we’ve more than compensated and are currently a little above average for this time of year. Fortunately, I’ve always been anything but a fanatic about meticulous lawn care. If I can keep from providing cover for ticks to hang out, it’s good enough for me. There are more important things (like fly-fishing) to do on a beautiful June day. I make a lousy suburbanite which minimizes the liklihood of putting up with the likes of the Alitos.

What Is So Rare as a Day in June? -

by James Russell Lowell

And what is so rare as a day in June? 
Then, if ever, come perfect days; 
Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune, 
And over it softly her warm ear lays: 
Whether we look, or whether we listen, 
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; 
Every clod feels a stir of might, 
An instinct within it that reaches and towers, 
And, groping blindly above it for light, 
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; 
The flush of life may well be seen 
Thrilling back over hills and valleys; 
The cowslip starlets in meadows green, 
The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, 
And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean 
To be some happy creature's palace; 
The little bird sits at his door in the sun, 
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, 
And lets his illumined being o'errun 
With the deluge of summer it receives; 
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, 
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; 
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,-- 
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best? 

Now is the high-tide of the year, 
And whatever of life hath ebbed away 
Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer, 
Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; 
Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, 
We are happy now because God wills it; 
No matter how barren the past may have been, 
'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green; 
We sit in the warm shade and feel right well 
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell; 
We may shut our eyes but we cannot help knowing 
That skies are clear and grass is growing; 
The breeze comes whispering in our ear, 
That dandelions are blossoming near, 
That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, 
That the river is bluer than the sky, 
That the robin is plastering his house hard by; 
And if the breeze kept the good news back, 
For our couriers we should not lack; 
We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,-- 
And hark! how clear bold chanticleer, 
Warmed with the new wine of the year, 
Tells all in his lusty crowing! 

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; 
Everything is happy now, 
Everything is upward striving; 
'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true 
As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,-- 
'Tis for the natural way of living: 

Who knows whither the clouds have fled? 
In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake, 
And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, 
The heart forgets its sorrow and ache; 
The soul partakes the season's youth, 
And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe 
Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, 
Like burnt-out craters healed with snow.

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