Read by Matilda Longbottom
Summer is my favorite season. I love the thick air and the stillness of the heat. I prefer wide-open windows, frames with flowing curtains, and ceiling fans to A/C, which I ultimately and begrudgingly drag-out every year sometime around the end of July. There are plenty of things that bother me, but the heat isn’t one of them. And when the inevitable, reoccurring comments arrive every Summer: “Hot enough for ya?” and “It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity!” I nod my head in a commiserating fashion while feeling a bit of a pang in my stomach, knowing it will pass all too soon.
I cherish swimming in the ocean and the gift of its breezes wafting through my kitchen windows, while I sit at my table and work on my laptop on those rare ninety-degree New England days. I lose myself in long meandering bike rides, the sound of clanking halyards, the moon’s hazy halo, and staring at sea gulls, curious about their formation into the wind (for faster takeoff). I’m mesmerized by the sunlight filtering through orange sherbet and cotton candy-colored tulips like stained glass, the endless kaleidoscopic variations of each sunset, and the ripples of wet sand after the tide has receded. I’m intoxicated by the rough high tide exploding over the sea wall like fireworks while little kids squeal in delight and feigned fear. I’m hypnotized watching baby ducklings line up, patiently waiting their turn for a wave to wash them onto the one resting rock at the inlet at the bottom of my street. I relish gazing up through my dear friend Sallee’s constellation app at the end of a warm July evening, as we laugh and twirl around on a patch of beach below her back deck, exhausted and giddy after a long frolicking dip and a couple of cold beers. I’m in my own private movie as I jog along the waterline at low tide in the magical moments of twilight. My senses are heightened, absorbed in sights of leftover all-dayers, imbibing volleyball players, quiet lovers, tired families escaping the heat; and phones lighting paths of children who have begged for “one more swim” who then quickly zig-zag down to the water before their parents change their minds. Converging, laughing, running, kissing, resting; we are partaking in a common and unique ritual.
I warmly admire all kinds of flowers, plants, trees, and bushes– even though I barely know or remember any of their names. I adore fresh fruits and vegetables and sometimes put on my reading glasses when eating a salad to see the textures more clearly. Oddly, even though I’m a creative person, I’ve never considered myself to have a “green thumb,” or the skill, patience, magic-touch(?) to grow things. Nor have I had a garden as an adult. I’ve always been in awe of others who adopted these abilities and pursuits.
My grandmother lived with us for many years and had the most gorgeous flower garden, endless amounts of mysterious vegetable and fruit jars in our basement, and even made dandelion wine. My sister has multitudes of lush, deep green and flowering plants in her home and throughout what she humorously likes to call “the grounds” of her (formerly, our childhood) yard. Growing up, I recall my parents always had flourishing plants and flowers in and outside the house and various tomato plants in the front yard. There may have been other vegetables as well, but the fact that I don’t recall them may hint at my favoritism for tomatoes. I have fond memories of piles of juicy, ripe, beefsteak tomatoes, dense and plush, sitting on the kitchen counter, slicing them thick, placing them on white bread with mayonnaise and salt, tucking them in a big old cooler, and taking them onto our small sailboat on many beautiful summer days on the Connecticut River. We would fish for hours for flounder, snappers, and occasionally go crabbing off the causeway near the “Borough of Fenwick,” an elite partition of my hometown, where Katharine Hepburn lived in her imposing and isolated house on the Long Island Sound.
Throughout the years, I always greatly appreciated anytime someone was willing to share the bounty of their garden. I would attempt to recreate my childhood memory with hearty slices of juicy tomatoes and a generous spread of mayo on what is now a healthier, adult-version multigrain bread. There is something so pure and primitive about someone sharing their harvest. Every bite tastes like Summer and there is a sacred connection between the giver and the receiver, mutually imbibing live and life energy, nourishing our bodies and souls.
This year, I got my very first tomato plant. My good friends and avid gardeners, Joe and Nancy, gave it to me. After moving it three times, I found the perfect spot for it in my yard. While I observed its daily growth and trials, I began to feel a bubbling maternal anticipation and watchful concern. Some days, I would trim the leaves, content and beaming with pride. Other days, I worriedly rushed out to give the plant a good soaking if it hadn’t rained the night before. As Joe said after I voiced my novice concern about its drooping leaves: “You know they need to be watered every day, right?” As I hesitatingly and guiltily started to respond, “Uhh …,” he appropriately interjected, “No, uhh … every day!” We had a good chuckle, and I got the point.
My bandmates thoughtfully gave me a dish garden several months back after my beloved kitty Chloe passed; “something lasting that would remind me of her.” I recently repotted the individual plants (another first) in lovely green ceramic pots generously donated to me by my upstairs neighbor Kevin, our resident condo decorator-gardener extraordinaire. Since then, I had been navigating the learning curve of how to nurture my new cherished friends. I’d Google: “Why are my plants’ leaves drooping? Yellow? Burnt on the edges?” Frustratingly, my queries were met with that familiar robotic voice: “The most common reason … can be from either over or under watering.” Hmm. Gee. Thanks, Sherlock.
I sing to them once in a while and use the same baby talk voice I did with Chloe. They help soothe the melancholy of my loss at times and create a continued connection for us. I often tell them they’re “cute,” “pretty,” “adorable,” being a “little finicky” or thank them for being “low-maintenance.” Of course, these are all according to their own unique personalities. (Insert winky face). I sometimes say “good morning” and “good night.” I ask them, “What’s going on?” if they don’t look happy. I like to think they appreciate it all and respond accordingly. Of course, they have needs. But they give so much and amazingly, ask for so little in return. It’s actually quite straightforward. Sunlight. Water. Yes, not too much or too little of either. Okay, maybe it can get a little complicated. Keep the pests out. Give them some attention. But all the rest is gravy. They enhance our lives. We help them. That’s the deal.
As I watched my one single tomato plant grow, I was thrilled to see first, flower clusters, then mini-green globes emerging, one in particular growing faster than others. Day by day, I watched as a translucent light orange color took over its form. One late evening, I checked on it after a beach walk and estimated that it would be perfect in two days. I recalled my experienced gardener friends telling me in a voice of disappointment and humble acceptance of the many times they were just about to pick that perfect fruit or vegetable and woke to discover a cunning, seemingly prescient rabbit, squirrel, or other neighborhood critter had swiped some of their care and toil. Much like the arch of a lifetime or a faint reflection of our ancestors’ tribulations; moments of simultaneous anticipation and heartache, hope and despair.
I knew I was taking my chances by letting my tomato ripen another day and a half, but I decided to go for it. I had hidden the plant between the sunniest side of the building and some tall flowing zebra grass, and it had worked this far, so I was thinking I had a bit of beginner’s luck. I also had the good fortune of receiving occasional reports from the “godparents,” Kevin and my other building mate, Lesley. Lesley and I had never grown vegetables before, and both of us decided to start this year, and had been sharing our new adventure with occasional photos and texts about our babies flourishing and/or barely enduring. So when I went out today and pushed back the grass, I had the warmest sense of relief to find my beautiful little gem waiting for me. I held it in my hand, and it gently fell into my palm without the slightest tug. I knew the time had come.
I bounded up the front steps and through her first-floor screen window, I saw Lesley all the way back in her kitchen. I shouted her name but she didn’t hear, so I urgently rang her door buzzer and dashed back to her window. She came to it and I exclaimed, beaming, “Look! It’s my first tomato!” And kindly echoing my childlike excitement, she said, “I know! I saw it was ready!” Like a little girl that had just learned to tie her shoelaces, I said, “It’s exciting!” And she said, with a knowing smile, “It is!”
I brought my tiny treasure upstairs, gently washed it off, and found a little plate, so it didn’t look too small. I positioned the ‘display’ near two of my healthier plants, took some photos, and sent one to friends whom I knew would appreciate it. The comments reminded me of responses to a birth announcement: “Congratulations!” (She’s) “Perfect!” After the initial excitement, I sat down and just gazed at ‘her’. She-it is perfect, I thought.
Who knows what next year may bring? Maybe two tomato plants. Or even some peppers. For now, I will enjoy my first little tomato. Perhaps in a colorful salad, or in its bare glory, piled on one slice of what I now think of as ‘decadent’ bread. And while I partake in its loveliness, in the height of its prime, plump with pride, blushing with love, I give thanks. For some innocence restored. For some special memories revived. And for every bite tasting like Summer. ❖
About the Author: Kelly Laine Riley is an award-winning songwriter, having opened for Willie Nelson and Lyle Lovett. Many of her songs have been featured on TV, internet, and commercial spots. Alongside her music career, she is also a private music teacher. Kelly resides in Lynn, MA, where she finds inspiration in the rhythms of Summer and the bounty of the earth.
