Humility and Moonshine

Summer days.  That means watering the Boston ferns on the front and back porch.  Misting the hydrangeas to ward off their weary midday wilt.  Plucking horn worms off the tomato plants.  Fighting the flea beetles.  Breaking of leaves from lemon verbena, lemon balm, and lemon grass herbs just for the sheer pleasure of the release of tart scent.  (Has anyone caught on to this blogger's affection for citrus?)

Summer days.  It's the race to get the dog walked before the heat causes her to collapse in her furred and aged state.  Healthy as she is, the panting starts quickly in the midst of a Middle-Tennessee June weather pattern.  Shoot, healthy as I am, the panting starts almost as quickly as my canine companion.  Even better?  Evening strolls before dinner when the buggies come out to play and stick in the hair, on the face, down the shirt, clinging handily to the moisture which instantly beads up on the skin.  Then there's my teenage daughter, fresh off the treadmill after logging in a soggy 8+ miles, sweats and t-shirt soaked, attempting to embrace me, insisting that because she's my daughter I should eagerly accept her nasty sweaty hug.  Methinks not.  Muggy days are here again!  This is when I remind myself how fortunate I am to not live in Mississippi or Louisiana. 

Summer days.  Which don't start officially until the summer solstice yet two weeks away.  But who's it trying to fool anyway?  There's not a one of us still calling June 10th late Spring unless there's a gardener out there whose a stickler for season protocol.  The moment school lets out and the kids are home: it's summer.  The day weekend releases of movies are based more on action and superheroes than drama and intricate plot lines: it's summer.  The first time we crack open the rind of a seedless watermelon and munch into that sweet pink flesh: it's summer. 

Summer days.  The annual 4th of July bash put on by Phyllis and Larry down on their farm is not far off.  My husband will have another chance to claim a second trophy in the horseshoe competition; the first trophy still rests atop our fridge for all to see.  I still recall our first visit.  The scent of all-day cooked pork hung in the hot air.  Picnic tables stood ready to receive the crowd of family and friends once they ladled, spooned, sliced, and picked their way through the generous nobody-is-going-home-hungry spread of homemade sides, wide-and-frieds, and gooey yummy desserts.  Fish in the pond gorged on late afternoon insects buzzing the water's surface.  Kids played in the grass, on the gravel, near the goat pen.  If one listened carefully, donkey's braying and cow's lowing could be heard in the background.  Idyllic. 

And I saw my first pickled chicken's foot.  An entire platter of them right between the mac n' cheese and potato salad.  After a few daring nibbles, I decided the best thing to do with the thing was take it home, freeze it, and bring it out for my brother during his Christmas visit.  And, then there was the year that one of the country cousins, a very affable guy, offered us a long pull on his jar of moonshine.  It may have been peach.  Jimmy and I both obliged him.  It's Tennessee.  It's the 4th.  Solidarity.  Surely he wouldn't offer if any reason existed to support why he shouldn't.  (Looking back, I blame the 'humility' for this rash decision to swap cup spit with a perfect stranger.  Humility is my Cousin Tony's word for humidity.  Appropriate.)  This sharing of the communal distilled-beverage cup was followed by a short story whereby said cousin revealed that he had only been recently discharged from the hospital after a long stay spent recovering from a severe staph infection!  Ba-da-dump!  Thank you, thank you, we were there all night!  He did think to later mention that he was not released until the infection was totally cleared up.  Oh.  What a relief!

Summer days.  Summer daze.  Summer haze.  Get it while it's hot.  Douse yourself in sweet tea.  Catch the lightning bugs.  Tease the tiny curlicues that form at the base of your neck.

Because before you know it . . . football will come along and jerk us back into school, shorter days, colder nights, and no more watermelon.