These cool evenings in the garden are pure joy.
Mark is watering the fruit trees, the Woggledog is nosing at her bright orange ball, and Mumsie is sitting on the pallet that borders the compost pile, watching intently for wayward mice. She wouldn’t dream of letting us pet her, but she enjoys our company in the garden, her appearing from nowhere every time we tend the chickens or enter the squash jungles.
Squash vines cover almost every path, their broad leaves perched atop stalks like giant umbrellas. I like to get low, to crouch under their shade and feel as though I am in a green forest.
“Well hello, zucchini,” I say. What was the size of a Sharpie marker yesterday will be big enough to eat tomorrow. And there’s another just below it that I’d swear hadn’t been there the day before.
I leave them for Mark to harvest. I have to be careful on my zucchini safaris. My skin is hypersensitive to the hairs on their stems, and the fine down that covers the fruit itself. The same is true of sunflowers. And tarantulas, for that matter. All things I love.
I turn my attention to the tomatoes, which have had a slow start this year. It wasn’t until last week we realized why, when I reached my hand out to touch one and pulled it back in alarm. A giant, bright green caterpillar, as thick as my thumb, casually munching the stem. Hornworms. We’d never had them before, and when we looked closer, they seemed to be everywhere. They made us both “queeby,” our word for the queasy, icky feeling we get from things we dislike. Mark rescued me from the scary worms, offering them up to the chickens, and the tomatoes have finally begun to ripen.
The Woggle brings her ball to the tomato patch, and wonders if today will be the day. I gently pinch a cherry tomato, a new variety, deep red and streaked with yellow. It doesn’t want to release its hold on the vine, but its flesh is starting to give a bit too much under my fingertips. I pull it off and split it open at the top, feeling the cool juice dribble down my fingers.
I offer it to the Wog. She drops her ball and takes the tomato, but spits it out just as quickly and gives me a plaintive look. I pick it up and break it fully in half, then offer it up again. She chomps it with relish. She doesn’t like to bite into tomatoes. Doesn’t like the surprise when they burst open. I feed her two more, and meander to the other side of the garden.
Mark has moved to the next tree, his watering a meditation. The bees hovering about the hive provide the “Ommmmmm.”
We’ve given up on pretending that the snow peas are for us. The Woggle loves them too much. The minute my attention turns to the pea plants, she’s dropped her ball and sidled up to me, waiting.
“Oh, here’s a nice, big, fat one,” I say, pulling it off the vine and holding it next to my thigh. Her wet nose brushes my fingers as she delicately takes the pea in her mouth.
CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH. You can hear her smiling. Her joy hits you full in the chest, and you look for another pea to offer, to bask longer in that sunshine. CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH.
Mumsie has hopped down from the compost pile and is rolling on her back, her soft, pink belly in the air. It’s her version of letting us pet her. Happy cat.
Happy dog.
Happy life.
