The Coming of the Toads

A Notebook – Since 2007

Tag: Harvest

  • Yardscraper

    Susan came down to say it’s raining and did I want to bring in the cushions. I hadn’t heard the rain, though I’ve got the doors and windows wide open, but I knew it wouldn’t last long, a trace only had been predicted, but I also knew she’d be disappointed in me if I didn’t hop up and go grab the cushions, and in the moment she waited to see if I was going to go out or continue thinking at my laptop for how I wanted to say something about Benjamin Wood’s novel “Seascraper,” I pictured her dashing out and snatching the cushions herself from the rain in her nightgown and slippers.

    I stood at the edge of the porch, cushions safely secured from getting wet, watching and listening to the rain, falling harder now than I had expected. Yesterday morning I was in the yard watering when I felt the drops hitting my hat and hands, but it lasted not even one minute, a trace, and I continued with the yard work, and the sun melted another day. But today as I stood at the opening of the porch and began to smell the dry ground oils stirred by the new rain I suddenly felt almost like an epiphany the end of summer.

    Yesterday I harvested the grapes from the pergola I built 35 years ago, the oil of the cedar boards dry and the wood crackling and splitting and fraying like an old T-shirt. I’ve been thinking for a few years of taking it down. By August the grapes are heavy. Scuttling the pergola will be a hard task. Meantime, the dwarf apple tree has overgrown the grape trunk and the Blaze Climbing Rose has reached the stratosphere, entangling its barbed links through the grape vines and the apple branches, a beastly hairdo that winds its way through the aged cedar board barrettes.

    As I had predicted the rain stopped after a minute or two, my epiphany manifesting the end of summer yet another illusion of insight, a pseudo-epiphany, as too often happens. The rain was but a trace. And while I’ve got my copy of “Seascraper” sitting here by my side waiting for me to say something about it, I’ve lost the gumption. I’m going back out to take another look at the pergola; might even have a go at the Blaze.

  • Hand Harvest

    Trees and vines tired yield fatty fruit apples grapes figs pears and plums tried of a risible sun they surmised (if plants could) they’d never leave home tied to secret crawling roots.

    Birds bees and woe wacky wasps buff yellowjackets give peppery ear to where teeny seeds well watered sprout and flume into chalice gold tomatoes peppers gourds hot yams.

    Sockets and bracelets ankled deep and wristed waisted random gloved catch the yawning blue moon lured by lovers deep smell a wet garbage vinegar a hand harvest work party.

    Purple night suckered us here dilly dally by the sap empty sugar shack waiting by the swelled bushels sour jobs lasting summer into sweet fall and to think we happily volunteered.