Harvest

The second Tuesday of each month, I host Open Mic Night at Urbano Bar & Bistro here in Sierra Vista, Arizona where amazing local talent gather to share stories, poems, and music. Recently, we added a monthly theme. This month’s theme is Harvest. It was suggested by poet and friend, Bruno Talerico. I don’t usually read my work at Open Mic Night, but seeing that my garden is the gift that keeps on giving, I thought I would write a little something, and share it here with friends and readers who cannot make it tonight. And I wish you could all make it tonight!

 Harvest

Something happens to me this time of year. More specifically, it begins Labor Day weekend when, if you live in cold climates like Wisconsin where I was born and raised, people are savoring the last warm days of summer. It’s the last hurrah for outdoor BBQs, water skiing, and soaking up the last bit of sun’s rays before autumn strikes like a wild cat in the night. When shutting doors and windows against the cool evening air becomes inevitable. And everyone begins to feel a bit sluggish like bears just before the last trek to the river to fill their bellies with salmon, their biological clocks preparing for the long slumber.

 I don’t water ski, and my dermatologist has ordered no more sun for me unless I am wearing a big, floppy hat and long sleeves. “At the beach?” I asked.

“No more beaches, Beth. What would be the point?” she said.

But it doesn’t matter because my clock is more like the bear. Maybe it’s the Irish farmer’s blood coursing through my veins, signaling this departure from my peers. Instead of donning a bikini or firing up the grill, I spy on my tomato and pepper plants. I deadhead the basil and flowers that are starting to droop in their pots like old ladies sipping sherry while playing bridge. I work tirelessly in my garden to feed those I love knowing soon the plants will stop producing fruit: The crimson red of tomatoes for bruschetta. The popping juices of Anaheim pepper that roast on the comal on my stove. The sweet, pungent basil used to make pesto. Even now while they still produce food, I miss my plants for what will come soon—a dying back of spring’s promise of an abundant harvest. 

The seven-foot sunflowers bow their once sun-kissed haloed heads toward the soil that gave them life over the summer. They stand guard over the garden like fallen angels; their wings once outstretched to greet the day lay sallow, rustling like fallen leaves at their sides. They are the first to go. The squash will soon follow, their tentacles letting go of the fence. Of life.  

I have lived in Arizona for thirty years, yet my biological clock remains set to Wisconsin time. I long for sweaters and hoodies even though it is 90 degrees outside. Occasionally, my fingers itch to pull the tomato plants that will produce fruit well into October. My inner Irish farmer sighs: It is time to bury the plants in a shallow grave to compost for next spring. Sometimes, when I’m too busy or too overwhelmed to water and prune plants, I think this is too much. That this growing season bleeds too far into the calendar year, knocking up against the holidays. I need a break from it all, I think. And then I go into the yard where cherry tomatoes dangle like ruby baubles, and I hate myself for wanting it to be over.

So, today I will roast Anaheim peppers and dice tomatoes for salsa. Tomorrow, I plan to pick basil for pesto. There is prayer and longing and love in this small garden that flanks the house. A world of learned scholars that come to me each spring teaching the art of patience, beauty, and God’s perfection. This is what I must remember when my ancestors whisper: The cold is here. It’s time to go inside.